


Mac + Murdoc

by Captain_Kieren



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Before the season finale, Blackmail, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Allies, Enemies to Friends, Enemy to Caretaker, Gen, Humor, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Hurt Murdoc (MacGyver 2016), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Procedures, Mission Fic, Needles, Not Beta Read, Pre-Slash, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Protective Murdoc (MacGvyer 2016), Rescue, Team as Family, Threats of Violence, Torture, Uneasy Allies, Whump, Worried Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), but very brief - Freeform, dammit jim im a writer not a doctor, i dont know how any of this stuff works, i really just wanted to see mac and murdoc work together, maybe????, murdoc loves his son, murdoc whump, protective matty, reluctant allies, so much, this is circa season 2 btw, this is totally self indulgent, who knows!!!!!!, whump starts in chapter 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kieren/pseuds/Captain_Kieren
Summary: Murdoc is the Phoenix Foundation’s only hope of stopping an extremist group from taking the lives of thousands of innocents. Against everyone’s better judgment, he is (conditionally) released from prison and paired with Mac on a deep-cover mission.OrThe one where Murdoc becomes Mac’s temporary overwatch and super-creepy ally.
Relationships: Angus MacGyver & Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 70





	1. Sweet But Psycho

Murdoc is led out in handcuffs, flanked by two hulking prison guards.

It’s midsummer, the sun glaring through a steamy, early-morning fog. It smells of exhaust and hot asphalt from the delivery trucks rumbling outside the prison fence.

In stark contrast to his escorts’ grave faces, Murdoc is beaming at the group from the Phoenix. His smile grows especially wide when he sees MacGyver among them, sans one gun-toting, Texan, Helicopter Parent.

The sight is so delicious, so tantalizing, that he can’t help but burst into song. “ _Home, home on the range,_ _where the deer and the antelope play…_ ”

MacGyver makes a valiant effort of keeping his face neutral, but the stiffening of his muscles speaks volumes, and _oh,_ Murdoc just wants to stab him. Just a little. Just once. He won’t even kill him. Scout’s honor.

“ _Where seldom is heard a discouraging word, And the skies are not cloudy all day…_ ”

His escorts yank him roughly to a halt just short of the Phoenix team. Murdoc is bouncing on his toes, bursting with glee. “Well, well, well,” he says, looking between them. “My very good friends from the Phoenix Foundation. What a pleasant surprise! Matilda,” he greets, inclining his head respectfully in greeting. “Riley, Bozer.” He turns his head, saving his favorite for last. Like Halloween candy. “MacGyver.”

But Murdoc’s favorite chew toy obviously doesn’t feel like squeaking today. He turns his eyes away, pretending to squint in the sun. Or, maybe it’s not a pretense. It is quite a hot, sunny day this morning.

“Shut up, Murdoc,” Matilda says. No one smiles. No one but Murdoc. “This is hardly a surprise. You knew we were coming.”

“Well, yes,” he concedes. “But when I was informed that a Phoenix tac team was on its way to meet with me, I was expecting more of the faceless goons in Kevlar. You know, the ones with zero personality that I could kill with a pencil eraser.” He lets his gaze drift back to MacGyver, who is looking at him now with an expression of poorly concealed disgust.

Leaning into him, confidentially, Murdoc adds, “I’ve actually done that before, you know? It’s quite easy, really. All you have to do is—”

“Shut. Up,” Matilda growls, demanding his attention back on her.

He surrenders, looking back.

“If you must know,” she continues. “We’re here because the timeline of this operation is extremely short and my team needs to leave for infil in less than twenty minutes. So—” She steps closer, despite the warning looks from the guards and her own little friends fluttering after her. “I assume you know why we’re here.”

Murdoc pauses, pursing his lips and looking up into the puffy California clouds in thought. “Hmm,” he says slowly, letting that advanced timeline of their ride for a moment. “Well, I suppose it _could_ have something to do with all that nasty business on the news as of late. Am I right?”

“You are,” Matilda confirms, unbothered by him – annoyingly so. “The—”

“So, MacGyver,” he interrupts, giving the Boy Scout one of his nicest smiles. “Where’s Jack? I thought the two of you were inseparable.”

MacGyver is still refusing to rise to the bait, but there’s a certain, subtle shift in his eyes or his posture that gives Murdoc all the information he needs.

“Oh, no,” he says, raising his cuffed hands to cover his heart, for fear he may swoon. “Don’t tell me that Papa Jack has been left out of the loop on this little deal we’re striking?”

He searches each of the faces in front of him, and that is exactly what they all confirm. Guilt and regret, on all of them. “Oh, guys,” he tuts, clicking his tongue. “Don’t you know that deception and breaking trust is bad for team dynamics? _Also,_ I imagine Jack won’t be pleased to find out his little buddy Mac is playing ball with _me_.”

“You’re right,” Matilda says, still obnoxiously cool. “We left Dalton out of this one on purpose for exactly that reason. If he were to find out Mac is meeting with you, he would be here right now, potentially blowing the whole op with his over-protectiveness.”

“And how does that make you feel, MacGyver?” Murdoc asks, sticking out his lower lip. “A Boy Scout like you, I imagine lying to your surrogate daddy is making you feel all sad inside, huh?”

As is to be expected, MacGyver sneers, a growl rumbling deep in his throat. He takes one step before Matilda stops him with a warning glare that could freeze magma.

“Murdoc,” she says. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Oh, please,” he agrees happily. “I live to be helpful.”

“Right. Here’s the deal: as you know, the extremist group known as The Legion has been all over the news these past few days for a rash of bombings they unleashed in an organized, simultaneous attack across five countries. Hundreds are dead, thousands injured. The media has been calling them “the new ISIS” but, in reality, they are a much more immediate danger. Not only to American security, but internationally as well.” Matilda pauses, waiting for a reaction. “Of course, none of this comes as a surprise to you.”

“On the contrary,” Murdoc insists. “I heard it was four countries. The media can be so unreliable.”

Again, MacGyver grits his teeth.

“What I fail to understand, however,” he goes on. “Is how any of this connects to me.”

In response, Matilda looks at Riley, who produces a thick manilla folder from her laptop case. She hands it to her boss, who walks it the short distance between them and Murdoc. His hands are cuffed, however, so she opens it for him. How very thoughtful of her.

It’s a criminal dossier, mostly redacted. Names and dates stricken through with black ink. But the photograph attached remains intact, and Murdoc is, admittedly, given pause at the sight of it.

“I take it by your expression that you recognize this man?”

He nods once, leaning in for a better look. “Henri Holcomb.” He’s a tad older than the last time Murdoc saw him, and a fair bit more scarred as well. But it’s definitely him.

“Holcomb is an old associate of yours, I’ve heard,” Matilda says, closing the dossier and handing it back to Riley. She holds her arms behind her back. “Back from your days of…shall we say, _apprenticing_ under Nicolas Helman.”

“That’s right.” Murdoc straightens. “He wasn’t as good as I was, of course, but Henri is an acceptable killer. I certainly don’t think any of you would like to meet him in a dark, lonely alley…” He smiles at the thought. “So, am I to assume that Henri’s gotten himself mixed up in this Legion group?”

“Not only mixed up,” Matilda says. “He’s their leader. The head of the entire operation.”

Murdoc can’t help but be surprised and even somewhat pleased. “Well!” he exclaims proudly. “Moving up in the world, is he? Our little Henri, the leader of an international terror group. Who would have thunk it?”

The Phoenix group stares at him flatly, unamused.

“If you’re finished celebrating, let’s talk about this deal.”

“Oh, please do. I’m _dying_ to hear this.”

Matilda, surprisingly, hesitates. She starts to speak, then looks at MacGyver, apparently deferring to him to explain.

Oh, this is going to be scrumptious.

“In twenty minutes, I’m taking a plane to Washington,” MacGyver says seriously. “Our latest intel tells us Halcomb is somewhere in D.C. and we need to find him, for obvious reasons. We have reason to believe his next attack will be far more destructive than the last, and far more deadly. _You_ , Murdoc—” Stern, blue eyes meet his own, sending a thrill down Murdoc’s spine. “—are personally familiar with the Legion’s leader. From what we can tell, he still trusts you; is that right?”

“Oh, sure. Henri and I go _way_ back. Helman put us together on jobs all the time. For a short while there, we were almost like the much cooler, more murderous version of you and Jack Dalton.”

“So, you were close?”

“Well,” Murdoc shrugs. “I did try to kill him the last time I saw him, but when it comes to assassins, that’s basically a handshake.”

There are some glances exchanged, but this little operation of theirs must be urgent because they don’t even question it.

“Okay,” MacGyver continues. “If you agree to help me track Henri Halcomb down, get in with The Legion so I can determine the targets and timeline of their next attack, and then assist in Halcomb’s arrest, the Phoenix Foundation is willing to give you something you desperately want.”

“And what’s that?” Murdoc asks.

“Your son.” It’s Matilda. She has stepped forward, in front of MacGyver. “You understand, Murdoc, that this is a huge risk we’re taking with you. But as this op could be literally saving the world, I am authorized to lower your sentence to house arrest and allow weekly, supervised visits with your son, Cassian. That is, assuming you succeed in apprehending Halcomb – _and_ that my agent—” She looks at MacGyver. “—is unharmed upon your return.”

She folds her arms, expression darkening. “This is basically a miracle from God for you, Murdoc,” she warns lowly. “I suggest you take it.”

It’s tempting, he won’t lie.

“So, let me get this straight… You want me to help sweet Angus track down my old partner, convince Henri to let us into his little gang, double-cross him, and then help you arrest him. And in exchange, I get released from prison and I get to see my son every week. Is that about right?”

“Not released; house arrest,” Matilda corrects sternly. “You’re still an enemy of the state and a very dangerous man, Murdoc. We haven’t forgotten that. But…yes. If you agree to these terms, we’ll have a deal.”

“And, just for funsies,” he wonders. “How exactly are you planning to stop me from, say…strangling MacGyver to death at the D.C. baggage claim and walking free right then and there?”

“Um.” Matilda gives him an eyebrow dripping in sarcasm. “Your son. Remember? We have him hidden so far away that you will never see him again, Murdoc, if you so much as _look_ at Mac the wrong way. Do you understand? Look me in the eye and tell me you understand that if you cross the line, if you hurt Mac, if you do _anything_ to jeopardize this mission, I am not beyond taking out my frustration on the son of an international assassin.”

“Oh, right, I forgot,” Murdoc says, staring her down. “You love threatening children.”

“Children? No. Your child?” She leans in, hissing. “Yes.”

So, Murdoc leans in as well. “Listen well, Matilda,” he says lowly. “If I go through with this and, upon my return, find that you have lied to me…well…” He looks pointedly at MacGyver, holding him under his gaze while he speaks. And he can’t see his own face currently, lacking a mirror or any reflective surface, but the fear that flashes in his eyes (just for one second, mind you) is enough to assure him he looks terrifying.

“I will find your precious _Mac_ , no matter where you hide him, I will find him. And I will take him. It’s easy; I’ve done it before, as you recall. And I’ll send you pieces of him in the mail every day, until there’s nothing left. Oh…” He smiles. “And I’ll make sure to record the whole thing and send it directly to Jack Dalton’s personal phone for his…enjoyment. How’s that for a deal?”

Behind Matilda, Riley and Bozer look positively green.

Their boss, however, is not so easily shaken. “Is that your way of saying you accept?”

He straightens again. “It is.”

“Good.” She looks at the guards, nodding her head. A second later, Murdoc’s wrists are free of the cuffs and a bag of his personal effects are shoved into his arms. “Mac will brief you on the details once you’re on the plane. Any questions?” She looks at both of them.

“No,” MacGyver says.

“Nope,” Murdoc agrees cheerfully.

“Good.” She looks meaningfully at the Boy Scout when she says, “And good luck. Don’t forget, the Phoenix has got your back. We’ll be monitoring at all times.”

MacGyver gives her a small smile, which evaporates the instant his eyes meets Murdoc’s. “Let’s go,” he says coldly. “We have a plane to catch.”

Oh, this is going to be so fun.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they’re bundled into a private Phoenix jet, climbing into the sky. Murdoc is alone in his area of the plane, uncuffed, but isolated in a locked compartment at the tail end. Once they’ve reached their highest altitude, a knock on the steel door at the front of the temperature-controlled tube lets him know someone is coming in.

He hopes, of course, that it will be MacGyver coming to play – but no. It’s an anxious-looking young man with dark hair and shaky hands, carrying a plastic tray. Murdoc smiles at him from his seat.

“Hello,” he says.

The young man stares at him, his throat bobbing in a swallow. “Um—hello.” He holds out the tray, which is steaming and smells of brown sugar and maple. “Breakfast, Mr. Murdoc.”

“Oh!” He rises, startling the poor lamb so badly he almost drops the tray, but Murdoc catches it before it can hit the floor. The boy backs up, his eyes practically bulging.

“I thought—”

“That I was restrained? Oh, no, dear boy. Don’t you worry. I am a trusted member of the Phoenix team, now. Didn’t you hear?” He glances down at the tray, which contains Styrofoam containers of various foodstuffs, and a cardboard box of milk, none of which look particularly appetizing, but Murdoc is nothing but a polite guest.

He says, “Thank you,” before returning to his seat and peeling away the plastic wrapper on the plastic silverware. The package has already been opened and the butterknife is missing, as well as the fork, leaving him with only a black spoon and a napkin.

As if he’s incapable of scooping out this boy’s eyes with a spoon.

“Um…you’re—you’re welcome.” The attendant backs toward the door, then turning quickly, fumbles with a keycard on his belt, and disappears back into the front part of the plane, probably to empty his guts into the toilet.

Poor dear. Someone really should tell him that Murdoc stopped hunting nervous twenty-year-olds when he was still in middle school. They’re way below his pay-grade now. He has graduated onto bigger and better things. After all, where’s the thrill in killing someone who’s going to faint at the first sight of a gun or poke of a knife? Or, in this case, a plastic spoon.

No, that wouldn’t very entertaining at all.

* * *

The next time the door opens, it _is_ MacGyver.

There must be a shower in the front part of the jet because his blonde hair is damp and his face is scrubbed pink and fresh. He’s wearing new clothes as well, a dark-blue collared shirt and beige pants. His timeless look is completed with heavy, brown boots, a Phoenix-issue comm piece in his ear, and a black case in his hand.

Big Brother is listening, indeed.

The Boy Scout only glances at Murdoc once before sighing deeply, which could probably be considered rude. Still, Murdoc is gracious enough to smile at him.

“Well, well, well,” he says, patting the seat next to him. “Alone at last.”

MacGyver frowns and takes the seat diagonally across from him, nearest to the aisle, as if to give him a head start in case he needs to run. How very cute of him.

“Murdoc,” he says heavily, finally resigning himself to being in the same room as the man who once kidnapped and tortured him. It was very brief, though, Murdoc wants to remind him. He only screamed once! So far as international assassins go, that was the equivalent to a chaste peck on the cheek. “I’m here to brief you on the details of the job.”

“ _Our_ job,” Murdoc puts him helpfully, leaning his cheek in his hand.

“I’ll be going undercover—”

“And I won’t be. I figured as much.” Murdoc looks him up and down, pursing his lips. “What’s your cover going to be? Psychotic male model off his meds?”

“Actually,” MacGyver says through his teeth. It’s obvious Murdoc is beginning to work on his nerves. “My name will be Daniel Franklin. I was born in West Palm Beach, Florida. I’m 29 years old, and for the last two years, I’ve been facing a life sentence for the assassination of a prominent American political figure, as well as the two police officers who attempted to apprehend me afterward. I was eventually caught via an FBI sting and taken to the very same maximum-security prison where you were being held. That’s how we met.”

“How romantic.”

MacGyver studiously ignores him. “This morning, we successfully escaped from prison and fled the state. It was my idea that we track down one of your old associates, preferably someone still within our line of work, looking for new applicants.”

“And I, of course, suggested my dear friend, Henri.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Danny-boy,” Murdoc says, sitting back and crossing his legs. “You have been very naughty, indeed. But there’s just one problem with this ‘Daniel Franklin’ character.”

MacGyver tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“He’s being played by _you_ , MacGyver. You, Boy Scout extraordinaire. Angel of justice with blue, puppy-dog eyes. We’ve been through this before. No one in the biz is going to believe you’re a killer.”

“Well, that’s why I have you, isn’t it?” It’s not a question. There’s a challenge in MacGyver’s blue, puppy-dog eyes now, and a stern set to his jaw. “To help me be as convincing as possible, and to get into Halcomb’s good graces.”

Murdoc chews his lip. “Well,” he says thoughtfully. “It could work, I suppose. But I have another question.”

MacGyver sighs. “What is it?”

“How do you expect to convince Henri and his group of terrorists that we’re legitimate businessmen if I don’t have a gun? It’s kind of my thing.”

At that, MacGyver’s face darkens. He reaches down to the floor beside him, where the black case rests against the side of his seat. Pulling it into his lap, he pops open the clips and lifts the lid, reaching inside.

From within, he produces a .45 Glock handgun.

Murdoc purrs at the sight of it. He reaches for the weapon, but MacGyver draws his arm back, still holding it.

“The part of the deal that you struck with Matty about not harming me?” he begins. “That extends to _every_ innocent person we encounter.”

“Define innocent.”

MacGyver glares at him. “I mean it, Murdoc. If you hurt anyone on this op who isn’t a target, you will never see your son again. Are we clear?”

Murdoc uncrosses his legs and sits forward, lacing his fingers together and staring directly into MacGyver’s eyes. “Crystal,” he says, then holds out his hand, palm up.

MacGyver hesitates only briefly before gently laying the weapon in it.

Murdoc closes his hand around it and reclines against his seat, ejecting the clip, pleased to see it fully-loaded. He pops the magazine back in and chambers a round with a satisfying _ker-chunk_. Murdoc closes his eyes with a deep sigh. “Oh, how I’ve missed that sound.”

MacGyver is silent, so he opens one eye to peer at him. The poor, little sweetheart looks positively conflicted. So, being the good Samaritan he is, Murdoc lays the pistol in his lap and says, “Oh, relax, Angus. I wouldn’t be surprised if, at the end of this, we were the very best of friends.”

Despite all his growling and mean stares, MacGyver actually allows himself to smirk. Even if it is a sarcastic, unconvinced smirk, it’s a nice change of pace. “Yeah, sure,” he says, rising from his chair and pointedly leaving the case behind. “Assuming we’re both still alive.”

With that, he swipes a silver keycard of his own and vanishes through the steel door into the front compartment. And Murdoc is alone again. Or, as alone as he can be in the delicious company of a handgun and a black case stocked with extra clips. And…something else.

Murdoc lifts the piece of paper, holding it up to the light so he can better see the sweet, youthful curves of his son’s face. The long lashes of his eyes, which are the color of sunlight through whiskey. The smooth, black cut of his hair.

It’s a nasty little trick from the Phoenix, a reminder of what he stands to lose if he fails or betrays them, but Murdoc tucks the photograph into his jacket anyhow, between it and the soft material of his black sweater. Just over his heart.


	2. I'm Gonna Show You (Crazy)

He and Murdoc are kept apart for the duration of the eight-hour flight from L.A. to D.C., separated by a bulletproof steel door.

MacGyver spends most of his time reclined in his seat, rehashing the mission details with Matty and Riley. Despite…everything, it’s a relatively straight-forward job.

“Any news on Jack?” he asks at about hour four, as he discards his approximately five-hundredth paperclip sculpture into the chair next to him.

_“Let me get this straight,”_ Matty says, her voice hollow and tinny through the static. _“You’re 38,000 feet in the air with a psychotic murderer, and you’re worried about Jack?”_

Mac smiles, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle. “More worried that he’ll get home early and find out we all lied to him.”

_“Well, don’t be,”_ Matty assures him. _“As far as Jack knows, his years of dedicated, top-notch service to his country have earned him an all-expense paid trip to Cuba. Oh, that reminds me…”_

Mac’s phone chimes with a text from Matty. He clicks the link.

_“Jack sent me this last night. It would appear he’s having a great time.”_

Mac laughs at the photo of Jack, lounging in the front seat of a baby-blue 1959 convertible Rambler with a bushy, red flower tucked behind his ear, and a striking woman holding a Martini seated next to him. The big doof has a huge, toothy grin on his face and a lipstick mark on his cheek.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s a safe assumption,” Mac says, chuckling. He saves the picture to his gallery and checks the time. They’ll be landing in just under four hours, now. He sighs. “You know, I gotta say, I’m not looking forward to spending the next several weeks sharing a hotel with Murdoc.”

_“I know how…uncomfortable this must be for you, Mac,”_ she says sympathetically. _“ Given the history you have with Murdoc. And believe me, if there was any other agent I trusted to get this done, you wouldn’t be there.”_

“Yeah, I know…” Suddenly restless, he gets up and paces down the aisle toward the front half of the plane, putting as much distance between himself and Murdoc as he can. These last precious hours of alone time are feeling more and more fleeting as the minutes tick away. “And for the record,” he goes on. “If you’d sent anyone else, I’d still be worried. So, in a weird way, I’m glad I’m here.”

_“I know what you mean,”_ Matty says heavily.

“Hey, try not to worry. We’ve run through the plan a thousand times, and I’m confident that Murdoc won’t turn on me. Not when he runs the risk of losing Cassian.”

_“I know he won’t,”_ she agrees. _“The plan is air-tight and your cover is one of the neatest we’ve ever made, down to and including news reports, mug-shots, and obituaries for the two police you supposedly murdered. Hell, The Legion’s probably already heard of you.”_

Mac smiles sardonically, tossing his Swiss Army Knife from hand to hand. “Murdoc seems convinced I won’t be able to pull off posing as a killer.”

_“Well, you’ll have to if you want them to trust you, Mac.”_ Then, Matty sighs, apparently uncomfortable just thinking what she’s about to say. _“As wrong as this feel to say, you’ll just have to follow Murdoc’s lead on this. Study him and model your behavior after that. Do whatever it takes to earn The Legion’s trust and stop the next coordinated attack.”_

Mac stops pacing, letting the hand holding his knife drop to his side. He’s half-queasy at the thought of “whatever it takes” but Matty is right. If The Legion’s next bombing is anything like the last, it could mean the deaths of hundreds or even thousands more people worldwide. They simply can’t take that risk.

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

The plane touches down at a Phoenix Foundation private airfield just after four o’clock that afternoon. The east coast is rainy today, the sky heavy, grey, and foggy outside the window. Pellets of rain beat the glass as soon as the landing gear touches the asphalt.

_“Good luck, Mac,”_ Riley says in his ear. _“I’ll be tracking your signal at all times.”_

“Thanks, Ri.”

With that, he resigns himself to stand up and make his way back to the steel door. It feels a bit like approaching a caged bear, or one of the enclosures in _Jurassic Park._

It takes a few additional seconds before he’s able to convince himself to go through with it, the opening of the door. And the letting-out of the insane murderer behind it. Who he armed with a gun.

“Here we go,” he whispers, mostly to himself, before finally swiping the keycard. There’s a small _beep_ and the keypad flashes green.

The door hisses as it opens.

Immediately, there’s Murdoc. Already standing on the other side with that creepy grin on his face, dressed in black on black leather. The gun is nowhere to be seen, probably hidden under his coat.

When he sees Mac, that grin widens into sheer delight. “Look at us, MacGyver, going on a cross-country trip like real BFFs,” Murdoc says, those spooky eyes of his dancing. He cranes his neck to peer past Mac, at the rows of empty seats, then tilts his head curiously. “What,” he says. “No Bozer? Or Samantha? I thought for sure that at least Riley would be accompanying us.”

Mac resists the urge to sigh. “No,” he says as pleasantly as he can muster. “Just us.”

“A boy’s trip, huh? Oh, Jack is gonna be _so_ jealous of our bonding-time.”

“Yeah,” Mac grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Super jealous.”

A light, warm rain batters Mac’s face as he takes the stairs down to the runway, Murdoc’s footsteps a clunking echo of his own.

There is no one to meet them here except for a few workers in fluorescent yellow vests and a big, empty airfield. The runway is wet and steamy, stinking of jet fuel and hot asphalt, a burning smell that hits the back of the throat and sticks in the nose.

“So!” Murdoc chimes in before they’ve even hit the ground. Mac is getting tired of him already and it hasn’t even been one day. And they spent most of it apart. “What would you say to a little dinner for two, MacGyver? Huh? Maybe some Italian, or, _oh!_ Chinese! It has been _ages_ since I’ve had Chinese food. Let me tell you, Angus, prison nutraloaf really fosters a hunger for General Tso’s.”

“We’ll eat at the hotel,” Mac says, dragging his rolling suitcase across the tarmac. “Don’t forget we have a time schedule, Murdoc.”

“Did you seriously just ‘we have food at home’ me, MacGyver? I tell you; you are no fun at all.”

Mac rolls his eyes again. “Sorry.”

There’s a brief, merciful silence. Mac grabs it like a lifeboat and hangs on.

Then, “Oh, well. It’s fine, I suppose. After all, we’ll have _loads_ of alone-time together. Maybe we can have a movie night. Do you like horror movies? I have a vested interested in slasher films, you know. They’re so funny.”

Mac looks at him sideways to find Murdoc looking straight ahead, smiling brightly, swinging the black case back and forth.

What a creep.

* * *

The hotel is huge; eight floors, over six-hundred rooms, two full-sized gyms, attached restaurants, bar, and spa. There’s a rental car place literally in the parking lot. It must have been built for the express purpose of servicing guests at the hotel because the two buildings are made of the same cream-colored brick, with very similar arched windows and blue accents.

“Niiice place!” Murdoc comments approvingly. “I’ll say this much for you Phoenix people: you have—” His presses his lips to his fingers in an exaggerated chef’s kiss. “— _excellent_ taste.”

“And here, I thought you like us for our personalities,” Mac says as they stride for the front entrance, a pair of cloudy-blue double doors framed with shining steel.

Murdoc dashes ahead, giving Mac pause. But he’s only opening the door for him, bowing with flourish. It leaves Mac with two choices. Either, A) stubbornly stand his ground and make a scene. Or B) let Murdoc hold the door for him and just keep walking.

Since causing a scene is the last thing he wants, especially so early in the op, he reluctantly chooses B, and steps inside the lobby, letting Murdoc bring up the rear.

“Thanks,” he grumbles.

“You are so welcome, MacGyver.” Murdoc falls into step beside him. “This is so fun. Isn’t this fun?”

“Tons. And it’s Daniel Franklin, remember?”

“Oh, of course. _Danny._ ”

Mac is gritting his teeth by the time they make it to the front desk, where a friendly-looking older woman in a rose-colored blouse greets them with a big smile.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she says. “Do you have a reservation?”

“We do.” Mac pulls out his fake ID, courtesy of the Phoenix, and slides it across the marble countertop toward her. “It’s under Franklin.”

“Just one moment.” She picks up the ID and goes to tapping at the keyboard of her computer.

“Oh, Danny, look,” Murdoc says, pointing across the lobby to a rather sizable indoor fountain shaped like a cherub, complete with wings and water jug. “How cute is that?” he says, looking now at the woman. “Couldn’t you just squeeze that baby to death?”

She laughs lightly, totally unaware that there’s a fifty-percent change he isn’t kidding. And fifty-percent is being generous.

Mac growls at him – quietly, of course, but Murdoc ignores him and goes on gushing about the hotel. The patterned floor tiles, the crystal chandelier over by the elevators, the marble columns. It’s downright obnoxious.

“You know,” Murdoc says casually, just as the woman is sliding Mac’s ID back to him. “Being imprisoned really makes you miss the finer things in life.”

_“What did he just say!”_ Matty demands in Mac’s ear.

To her credit, the woman only stares for a few seconds before fumbling awkwardly at her keyboard in an attempt to be gracious.

“Ha-ha,” Mac says, plastering on a big, fake smile of his own. “He’s kidding, of course.” Then he turns a look on Murdoc that is only venomous if you really look deeply into his eyes, which Murdoc does, smiling right back.

“O-oh!” The woman covers her heart and gives a faint laugh. “Of course. Haha.”

Then, Murdoc winks at her and Mac practically drags him toward the elevator. Once they’re out of earshot, he shoves Murdoc away, snarling. “What the hell was that!”

“What?” Murdoc says innocently. “I’m sticking to my cover. Which is myself.”

Mac balls up his fist, ready to punch him right in the nose, Jack Dalton-style, but that’s when Matty chimes in, the voice of reason. _“Settle down, tiger,”_ she says, as if she can see him. _“I know it’s hard, but he’s doing this on purpose, trying to get under your skin. Remember that.”_

So, Mac takes a breath and tries to relax. “Just—” He huffs. “Just get in the elevator.”

“Yes, sir!”

* * *

Their rooms are adjoined suites, so they’ll be painfully close during their stay here, but at least Mac won’t have to sleep in the same room as Murdoc.

Although, right now, a locked door doesn’t feel like much of a deterrent to the wild-eyed psychopath beside him.

He tries telling himself, _I’m not scared of him,_ but he isn’t sure who believes it less – him or Murdoc. In fact, just the sound of his voice rising to tease or laugh, or the spread of his wide mouth in a grin, is enough to flash Mac right back to that dark, damp underground room. To handcuffs, and a metal chair, and an IV full of drugs sabotaging his brain.

His skin prickles at the memory, and he cringes involuntarily the next time Murdoc speaks.

“You know, _Danny_ —” He seems to be enjoying the cover name a little too much, letting it roll around in is mouth like a piece of hard candy. “—I couldn’t help but notice all those wonderful-smelling restaurants downstairs. Since we are now in the hotel, would you care to join me for a pleasant, team-bonding dinner?”

Mac gives him a flat look and then, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, says, “As much as I’d love to, I’m gonna have to pass.”

Murdoc plants hands on hips. “Really, Angus?” he whispers, seeming honestly exasperated. “Don’t tell me you’re going to sit in your room all night, watching pay-per-view, and eating room service.”

“Actually,” Mac comes back. “I’ll be working on the _mission_. Remember that? This isn’t a pleasure trip, Murdoc.”

“Of course, I haven’t forgotten. You’ll recall that I have quite a lot personally at stake with this job.” He says meaningfully, and Mac—despite himself—can’t help but feel a little guilty for using Murdoc’s son against him. Again. “However, I’ve always believed in enjoying one’s work. What’s the harm in a little fun?”

“Which is exactly why I _won’t_ be dining with you. No offense.” The last bit is dripping with sarcasm again, but Murdoc smiles, like he enjoys seeing this biting, unfriendly version of Mac.

“Oh, none taken,” he calls out as Mac steps into his room and starts to close the door. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll be going down to the restaurant! Alone and unsupervised!”

“Knock yourself out.” He slams the door.

* * *

_“You’re not worried about him running away?”_ Riley asks skeptically. _“Or…I don’t know, stabbing someone in the eye with a fork?”_

Mac is laying back on his bed with his legs crossed and bobbing. The blankets are cool and tucked a bit too tightly, as they always are at hotels. The pillows have a soapy smell that he eventually identifies as an ivory dryer sheet or detergent.

“Nah,” he says, rubbing his eyes. It’s only five-thirty, but he’s already feeling drained from the long flight and mental exhaustion of dealing with Murdoc. “He won’t do anything to endanger his chances of seeing Cassian.”

Riley hums, and he can hear her tapping at her keyboard. _“Oh, did I tell you?”_ she asks, lighter all of a sudden. _“There’s a rumor that that movie you like is getting a sequel. The one with Leonardo Di Caprio, that confused the hell out of Jack?”_

Mac chuckles at the ceiling. “You mean _Inception?_ Sorry, Ri, but there’s no way that’s getting a sequel.”

_“What? That’s not what I heard.”_

“I mean, I _wish_ , but there have been rumors about a sequel since, like, 2011. I doubt it.”

_“Man,”_ Riley says, bummed. _“Way to pop a girl’s bubble.”_

He smirks, glad for the distraction and good company, but sorry to disappoint her. “Sorry, Ri.”

_“Yeah, yeah…dream crusher.”_ She sighs. He can still hear her typing. _“Anyway, where’s Michael Myers now?”_

Mac grimaces just at the thought of him. “Downstairs still, I guess. He seemed pretty excited by the idea of non-prison food. He’s probably racking up quite a bill in Matty’s name.”

_“Yikes.”_

“Yeah.”

As if on cue, there’s a knock at Mac’s down.

_“Was that a knock?”_

“Yeah…” He gets up and crosses the room, peering through the peephole. He doesn’t see anyone. Stepping back, Mac frowns suspiciously. This seems just a little too scary-movie, doesn’t it?

Rolling his eyes, he calls through the door, “What do you want, Murdoc?”

Surely enough, it’s his voice that speaks back. “Delivery!”

_“Delivery?”_ Riley wonders, sounding just as unsettled as he feels.

Regardless, he has no choice but to open up or Murdoc will keep bothering him.

“Boo!” Murdoc says, jumping from the side, out of the view of the peep hole. When Mac actually jumps a bit—much to his own chagrin—Murdoc laughs like a schoolboy, actually smacking his knee. “Oh-ho, MacGyver, you are _too easy!_ ”

Officially annoyed, Mac is about to slam the door in his face when Murdoc produces his “delivery,” a black, plastic bag bearing the name of one of the hotel restaurants written in gold lettering on the front.

“A gift,” he says, sobering into some semblance of candidness. “I figured, you know, your foundation is the one who paid for my meal, so you’d might as well partake.”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, _come on,_ Angus! You know, you are really making this whole thing much more miserable than it needs to be!” The most surprising thing is that Murdoc does seem genuinely frustrated. “ _Yes,_ you and I do—admittedly—have a sordid history. _Yes,_ I have repeatedly tried to kill you—”

“SHH!” He looks furiously up and down the hall, but thankfully, the corridor is vacant.

“ _But_ keep in mind – the more you resist working with me, the harder you struggle, the easier it will be for our _future associates_ to sense that you and I aren’t the chummy cellmates we claim we are!”

As much as Mac hates to admit it—like, seriously _hates_ it—Murdoc does have a point. If they’re constantly snapping and raging at each other like feral dogs, no one will believe they’re partners in crime. Especially not trained killers like Halcomb with probably a boat load of trust issues.

His silence must speak volumes because Murdoc holds the bag out again, this time with a meaningful eyebrow and a frown.

Mac sighs and accepts it, peering inside at the black Styrofoam container. “What is it?” he asks wearily. He’s definitely not eating whatever it is.

Murdoc nods in approval at his change in attitude. “It’s Moroccan salmon with garlic potatoes, steamed broccoli, red onion jam, and a side of dill sauce. Should pair nicely with one of the expensive alcoholic beverages in your mini fridge.”

“Hmm. Thanks.” Mac regards Murdoc for a second, while the two of them stand facing each other in the hallway. “Do you…” He stops, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth at what he’s about to say. “Murdoc… Do you want to come in?”

_“Um…”_ Riley sounds about as shocked as he expected, but he ignores her. Even when she practically yells, _“Mac! I know you didn’t just invite Murdoc into your room!”_

“Well!” Murdoc claps his hands, and only then does Mac notice he’s wearing black gloves. That’s not creepy. “Better, MacGyver. Much better. And while the offer is appreciated, I’ll have to decline.”

Thank God. “Why? Got somewhere better to be?” He leans in the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Actually, yes.” Mac tilts his head, giving into the curiosity, despite himself. “I thought I’d go out and track down my good friend Henri. After all, that is the reason we’re here.”

Mac frowns. “Right now? That wasn’t the plan.”

“Oh, I know the plan. But the plan sucks.”

“Excuse me?”

Murdoc steeples his hands, speaking patiently and sweetly, as if to a young child. “Listen closely to your _sensei_ , MacGyver. If we both go waltzing into Henri’s base camp, wherever that might be, then not only do we pose a greater threat, but if Henri decides he doesn’t like me anymore and decides to kill us, who will be there to swoop in and rescue us? Your friends from the Phoenix, who are eight hours away? We’ll be worm food by then, my friend.”

“So, you expect me to let you go alone? To talk to these guys, by yourself. No. No way.”

“Aw, are you worried about me?”

Mac glares at him. “What I’m worried about is the operation. No offense, Murdoc; you can bring me as many peace offerings as you want—” He sets the bag of food on the floor next to him and crosses his arms. “You can pretend to be all helpful, but _nothing_ you do is going to make me trust you.”

“Good.” Murdoc steps close suddenly, but Mac holds his ground, and holds his enemy’s gaze, which feels like staring directly into a snake’s eyes. He’s just waiting for him to strike. “Hold onto that distrust, MacGyver. Keep it near and dear to your heart. Stroke it, coddle it.” His voice is a low whisper, tinged with venom. “A real killer, like Daniel Franklin, isn’t trusting. Nor is he trustworthy. What he _is_ —” Murdoc enunciates carefully. “—is a team-player. Or, he’ll have to be, if he wants to get in with The Legion. _You_ have to be. Understand?”

Murdoc holds out one gloved hand with his palm open. He stares at Mac expectantly.

Mac, however, doesn’t move. Instead, he says, “Matty? What do you think about this?”

Over comms, Matty sighs. _“What the hell,”_ she says, giving in. _“He knows what he stands to lose if he messes this up. And these people are his crowd, so he knows them better than we do…”_

Mac reaches into the silver case in his suitcase and plucks out a comms piece. He places it in Murdoc’s open palm and watches gloved fingers close around it.

“Good choice, Matilda.”

Murdoc places it into his ear and clears his throat. “Hello-hello, my lovelies. Am I coming through clearly?”

Mac hears it in the hall and in his ear piece.

_“Yes, Murdoc,”_ Matty says flatly. _“Loud and clear.”_

“Excellent!” Then, to Mac, “Well, I’ll be off, then. Don’t wait up for me, dear.” He blows a kiss and turns to leave.

“What happened to back-up?” Mac asks as he walks away.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty, little head, Angus. You’d only be under-foot if you came with me this time, but if I need assistance, I’ll be sure to give you a ring.”

“Yeah,” Mac mumbles, watching him disappear down the hallway. “You do that.”

* * *

It feels like a bit like that scene in _Jurassic World_ where the people let the T-Rex loose into the park to fight the bigger, meaner dinosaur. But in this case, Murdoc is the T-Rex and Mac is the woman with the red hair and a lit flare, praying she doesn’t get eaten in the process of saving everyone else.

 _“At least you don’t have to run in high-heels,”_ Riley points out when he mentions it.

“Ha-ha. Can you track him for me?”

_“Murdoc? Why?”_

“Because I’m going to follow him.”

_“Didn’t he tell you to stay in the hotel?”_

“Yes,” Mac says slowly. “But I don’t take orders from him.” He finishes lacing his boots and sticks his Swiss Army Knife in the pocket of a fresh pair of jeans, alongside his wallet with Daniel Franklin’s fake ID.

 _“You hardly take orders from me,”_ Matty puts in. Mac smiles. _“I think it’s a good idea, Blondie. Tail him, but give him lots of breathing room.”_

“Yes, ma’am.” Mac closes his door and sets off down the carpeted hall.

 _“I’ve got Murdoc’s signal,”_ Riley says. _“He’s heading out to the parking lot. Be careful, Mac.”_

“Always am,” Mac says, breaking into a jog.

* * *

_“This is MacGyver. You know what to do – leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Bye.”_

Beep.

_“Hey, brother, it’s Jack. This is voicemail number three, if you haven’t noticed. Not cool, man. I know you hate when I go all helicopter-parent on you, but you know how I get when I haven’t heard from you in a few days. My panties get all in a bunch. So, call me back, all right? I’m startin’ to worry about you. Do not force me to go all creepy stalker and sic Riley on your cellphone signal or something. Good-bye.”_


	3. Bad Guy (Duh)

This majorly sucks.

Wherever Murdoc is aiming to go, he’s taking his sweet time getting there, practically skipping through the sheets of warm, summer rain, turning his face up every now and then to let it pour directly on him.

Mac skulks several paces behind, hunched and miserable in the downpour. While Murdoc at least has the protection of his black, leather overcoat, Mac has nothing but his shirt and pants, which are soaked to the skin. He hadn’t had time to grab a coat before dashing after Murdoc.

A good forty-five-minute walk from the hotel, crisscrossing through damp alleys and dark back roads, they come upon a quiet suburban strip of townhouses. The red-brick kind with shutters and window boxes and colorful front doors. A mist from the fog has settled over the neighborhood, swallowing porch lights and street lamps, giving everything a ghostly-white aura.

Murdoc waltzes right up to the house marked “21” and climbs the steps two at a time.

Mac hangs behind, ducked into the shadows of the houses across the street. Digging into his back pocket, he snaps a photo of the house before sending it to Riley. If she can ping the GPS in his phone, along with the number of the house, maybe she can find out who lives here.

That’s when a horrible shrieking sound knives through Mac’s head. He gasps, ripping out his comms and rubbing his ear. When the screaming stops, he puts it back in and whispers, “What the hell was that?”

_“Murdoc must have destroyed his comms,”_ Matty says furiously.

At the same time, Mac peers around the corner to see Murdoc grinding his heel and sweeping something into the bushes outside the house. Then, he knocks on the door.

_“What’s he doing, Mac? We’ve completely lost track of him on our end.”_

“Damn it.” Mac scans the road up and down before darting out of his cover, keeping low and to the shadows as best he can. Eventually, he slips behind a dark-grey SUV parked a short distance down the road. “I have visual. He’s knocking on the door, but I don’t know whether I’ll be able to hear what he says.”

_“Are you able to get closer?”_

“Not without being seen.”

_“Then stay put. We’ll just have to deal with what we’ve got.”_ Matty’s voice grows temporarily distant, like she’s turning away. _“Riley, I want you to get into the house’s security system, if it has one. If not, then the neighbors’. I want access to security cameras, CCTV, dashcams, anything with picture and audio.”_

_“Working on it.”_

The foggy stoop, and Murdoc, are suddenly washed in warm, yellow light as the emerald-green door opens. From within, Mac can halfway-see a man’s silhouette. Short, heavy-set, and Caucasian, but that’s all he can make out from here. That’s when a loose piece of gravel crunches behind him.

He whirls, giving the incoming fist easy access to his jaw.

* * *

The door opens and closes with a squealing clatter. Old wood on old hinges.

The room itself is pink and smells like whiskey and old wood. Not pink like a little girl’s birthday party, but pink like seashells. Like pink vodka-lemonade cocktails with mini umbrellas.

The phone rings a couple of times before picking up. _“Heeey, party dude,”_ Bozer says, talking through a mouthful. He must be eating dinner.

Jack grins. “Hey, Boze. How you doin’? How’s it goin’ on the home-front?”

_“Oh, you know,”_ he says, chewing. _“Spent all day getting dizzy on lab chemicals and making fake noses. Same old, same old. What about you? How’s your vacation?”_

They chat idly for a while, passing news back and forth. It was Bozer and Leanna’s six-month anniversary yesterday and Matty treated them to dinner, Riley’s been talking about a sequel to _Inception,_ and Jack tells him about Aymee, a drop-dead gorgeous Cuban engineer he met on his first night on the island. She’s real smart. Like, practically Mac-level smart, which doesn’t make him feel as dumb as it probably should – mostly because he’s so used to Mac. Also because she’s too sweet to ever make him feel stupid.

_“She sounds great!”_

“Awe, yeah. She’s a peach.” Jack’s phone vibrates against his cheek, but when he pulls it away, momentarily hoping it’s Mac, it’s just a text from Riley. Asking about his date with Aymee. He goes back to the conversation with renewed purpose. “Hey, Boze, have you heard from Mac lately?”

_“Mac?”_ He swallows thickly, clearing his throat. _“Yeah, I spoke to him yesterday...”_

“You did?” Jack pauses, feeling marginally better but also just a bit peeved. “That’s funny; I’ve been trying to get ahold of him for three days.”

_“I wouldn’t worry. You know how it is when you’re on a job.”_

“He’s on a job?” Jack’s eyebrows almost jump off his face. “Why am I only just finding that out? And who’s he got with him, watchin’ his back? Is Riley with him?”

_“No, she stayed back at the Phoenix. He’s got someone with him, though…”_

“Really? Would you care to fill me in on the details, Mr. Bozer?”

_“Jack,”_ he says hesitantly. _“You know we can’t talk about work over the phone.”_

Jack sighs. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I was just testin’ you is all.”

_“Uh-huh. Anyway, I gotta go. Try not to worry. This is Mac we’re talking about. I’m sure he’s fine.”_

* * *

Mac hits the ground hard, his arms barely coming up fast enough to break the fall. His head and jaw are throbbing, his mouth bitter with the coppery-sick taste of blood.

“I thought you said you weren’t tailed,” says an unfamiliar voice overhead.

“Oh, please,” Murdoc says lazily. “He’s hardly a tail.” Then, more humorously, “Possessive and over-protective, yes. A threat to you and yours? No. Actually, he’s a friend.”

Mac is just lifting his dizzy head when a black-gloved hand reaches down, offering to help him. He almost smacks it away, but thinks better of it just in time. He and Murdoc are supposed to be besties, remember?

Murdoc pulls him to his feet and steadies him when he sways, making a show of dusting him off and checking him over. Leather brushes Mac’s cheek as he turns his head to the side, sucking air through his teeth at the sight of what is sure to be an already impressive bruise. Mac blinks hard to clear the dots in his vision, making the two of the men around him laugh.

“You better watch it, Murdoc,” says the man in the doorway. “Your little, blonde friend looks like he might faint dead away.”

“Well, what can I say? I’ve always been a sucker for brains rather than brawns.”

As his vision finally clear, Mac gets his first look at the men. The closest one is easily over six-foot-five. Cropped hair, military-style. A permanent scowl on his rough, cratered face. He’s the one who one-punch-KO’d Mac and dragged him over here by the scruff of his neck. Bodyguard type. And now, he’s blocking off the bottom of the stairs, cutting off their route of escape.

The other one, the man in the house, couldn’t be a bigger juxtaposition to the meathead with the fists of steel if he tried. He’s shorter than Mac by an inch or two, and about twice his circumference. His black hair is slicked back with grease or gel, and a pair of reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose. Between that, the sweater-vest, and the khaki pants, he reminds Mac of a physics professor he once had at MIT, the one with a penchant for lame dad jokes.

“Who is he?” says the one who looks like Professor Reed, frowning openly at Mac, yet talking about him like he isn’t there.

“Henri,” Murdoc says politely, gesturing to Mac. “Meet Daniel. Daniel Franklin.”

Mac does his best not to show any surprise, which is easy, thanks to the fact that he can hide any reaction behind a wince of pain and a rub of his aching jaw.

This is him. Henri Halcomb. Leader of The Legion and international terrorist.

And Murdoc had his home address.

Why is Mac not surprised?

Halcomb stares intently at Mac over the tops of his bifocals. Mac holds his gaze, willing himself to look like a killer, which is hard to do when you’ve just gotten cold-clocked and dragged through the mud.

“Huh,” Halcomb huffs a moment later, turning back to Murdoc. “Who is he to you? Why’d you bring him here?”

“If you recall,” Murdoc says patiently, wearing the smile of a viper. “I didn’t bring him. He must have followed me from our hotel.”

“Well, what the hell are _you_ doing here, Murdoc? And, while we’re on the subject, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right here and now.”

Mac tenses, his eyes shooting to Murdoc. As if in punctuation, the meathead behind them cracks his knuckles.

Murdoc, however, is entirely unphased. “To answer all of your questions: I’m fresh out of a cozy stint in a max-security prison. Danny-boy, here, was my cellie.” Murdoc leans his head lovingly against Mac’s shoulder, and it takes everything in him not to yank away. “We got out together, and now we’re looking for—shall we say—employment opportunities?”

Halcomb is impassive with his arms folded over his chest. From one ear, Mac can hear Riley typing furiously. Other than that, it’s radio silence.

“Word through the grapevine is you, my dear friend, are in a position to offer us those opportunities, should you be so inclined.” Murdoc presses, practically batting his eyelashes.

It takes every ounce of restraint Mac has not to roll his eyes.

“And why,” Halcomb says, leering up at him. “Would I ever be inclined to work with you again? Have forgotten you tried to kill me last time we met?”

“Oh, Henri,” Murdoc tuts, shaking his head. “You know as well as I do that I wasn’t _really_ trying to kill you!”

“You shot me.”

“In the shoulder!”

“Two inches left of my heart, actually.”

“Which is in the shoulder! Come on, it was a love-tap!” Murdoc grins, lightly poking Halcomb in said shoulder with an unnerving giggle.

Halcomb’s jaw clenches. And that’s when Mac decides this has gone far enough.

“Mr. Halcomb,” he says, perhaps a bit too formally for someone like Daniel Franklin, but whatever. He didn’t exactly have a lot of time to get into character before being thrown—or rather _dragged_ —into the middle of this. “I know you have zero reason to trust either of us. _Especially_ Murdoc.” He shoots a sideways glare at him. “But if we could just sit down and talk, I’m sure you’ll see that, between the two of us, we have plenty of… _talent_ to offer to your organization.”

Halcomb looks blankly at him, but only up to the moment when he abruptly snorts with laughter and turns to Murdoc. “’Sit down and talk?’ Who is he really, Murdoc? A Cub Scout leader?”

Murdoc doesn’t exactly laugh but smile darkly. “He’s not kidding, Henri. You know I take pride in being the smartest person in the room—”

“Oh, I remember,” Halcomb comes back, a tinge annoyed.

“—but in this partnership, _I’m_ the _muscle_.”

At that, Halcomb pauses. He looks again at Mac, this time with a bit more interest. “Really?” he says. “What’s your IQ, Daniel?”

“162,” Mac says honestly. It’s not part of his cover, but the first rule of lying is to stick as close to the truth as possible to reduce the chance of slipping up on the small details later.

Halcomb’s eyebrows almost shoot off his forehead. “162?” he repeats. “Hot damn.”

“Like I said.” Murdoc sounds almost proud. “My little, blonde genius. You should see him on a job, Henri, it’s a thing of beauty.”

Finally, Henri seems to be in an agreeable mood. He sighs and pulls off his reading glasses, wiping them down on the hem of his shirt. “Fine,” he says. “Hand me your phone.”

Murdoc produces his in an instant. A burner on loan from the Phoenix. He hands it Henri, who types something in and hands it back. Somewhere in the house behind him, a phone digs, receiving a text. Murdoc slips it into his pocket without looking, and his face is the image of pleasure.

“I’ll text you details for a meeting. Until then, get the fuck off my property.”

“So nice to see you again, Henri,” Murdoc purrs.

* * *

“Sit down and _talk_?” Murdoc demands, stomping down the hall beside Mac. They’re both leaving muddy boot prints in the cream carpeting, but Mac is too tired, and sore, to care. “What do you think this is, MacGyver, _tea time at the Phoenix?_ ”

“Why are you so angry?” Mac says, dragging his feet. “It worked, didn’t it? Halcomb agreed to a meeting.”

“I’m not angry,” Murdoc says, his voice pitching the way it does when he’s emotional. “I’m just disappointed.”

Mac rolls his eyes. They’re nearly at their rooms, and Murdoc has been scolding him for the last forty-five minutes. Calling him a Boy Scout, and a NARC, and—hilariously—a stalker. Talk about a hypocrite.

_“What did you expect to happen, Murdoc?”_ Matty says over speakerphone. _“You must have known Mac would follow you.”_

“How stupid of me for having a little _trust_ in Uncle Sam’s finest!” Murdoc says, seething. “Frankly, you’re all lucky Angus’s little scheme didn’t get us both killed. I tell you; Henri is not a patient man. Nor a trusting one.” Quietly, he adds, “There’s a reason we no longer work together.”

_“Well, he seems to have bought what your cover. At least, for now. Riley’s been watching you guys since you left the residence. You weren’t followed.”_

“Yippee. We must be bestest buddies and pals.”

“Hey, can you stop?” Mac finally grouses at Murdoc, pressing the heel of his palm against his jaw. It’s really throbbing. “What’s done is done. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t tip you off that I was there, but arguing about the past isn’t going to change anything.”

“Ah, Angus, always the voice of reason. You’re so cute. It’s too bad Henri will probably put a _bullet_ in your face the next time he sees you.”

They stop outside their hotel rooms, Mac digging in his pocket for the keycard.

_“Oh, and one last thing, Murdoc,”_ Matty says. _“The next time you destroy government property—i.e. your comms—I’m taking it out of your house arrest privileges.”_

“You’re so cruel, Matilda.”

_“Oh, you have no idea…”_

* * *

Against his better judgement, Mac does end up eating the dinner Murdoc brought him. Purely because he’s famished and his stomach won’t wait long enough for room service. Stretched out on the bed, watching _Die Hard_ (because it’s on and it makes him think of Jack), Mac digs in with his plastic fork.

The fish is cold from sitting out for nearly two hours, but it should still be safe to eat. Cooked salmon doesn’t normally go bad at room temperature for about four hours, and frankly, it’s worth the risk. It has a nice, spicy-sweet rub, and the green sauce that comes with it is fresh and flavorful. And Murdoc was right; it does pair nicely with the high-end beers stocked in the minibar. Or nice enough.

He’s just tipping the Styrofoam containers into the trash when there’s a light, rhythmic knocking on the wall above his headboard.

_Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. Tap. Tap._

Mac sighs, but pulls open the door adjoining his room with Murdoc’s, reminding himself to smile.

“Yes?” he asks.

Murdoc is there, leaning in the doorframe, curiously, with a bag of frozen peas in one hand. “I’ll trade you an ice pack for a fresh set of clothes.”

Mac almost laughs. “Ah,” he says, shaking his head. “No need. There’s a suitcase under you bed with fresh clothes.”

Murdoc raises an eyebrow. “Boy, that Matilda really thinks of everything.” He goes to the bed, kneels, and pulls out the black suitcase.

“Yeah. There was another Phoenix team operating in D.C. the night before we arrived. Matty asked them to run her a quick errand before their exfil.”

“I don’t imagine they liked _that_ very much.”

“Nah, they were fine with it, actually.” Mac wanders inside, just a few steps, so he doesn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. “Their mission was a basic stakeout, easy watch-and-grab. Buying clothes for an international assassin who only wears black turtlenecks and leather was probably the most exciting thing they had to do all week.”

“Ha!” Murdoc looks up at him from the floor, genuinely amused. “Well, I really must give Matilda my most heartfelt gratitude for taking my fashion-sense into account.”

A chuckle makes it out of Mac’s throat just before he hears a distant vibration and he remembers his phone—his real one with all his pictures and contacts and personal information—not the Daniel Franklin burner in his back pocket.

Damn, he hasn’t checked his real phone for days. Basically since Jack left for Cuba. He and Matty had been so busy tracking The Legion…

Mac turns on his heel and goes digging in his suitcase, pulling out his smartphone just as the “missed video call” notification pops up.

It was Jack.

And so are the other ten missed calls and four texts, including the one that’s just a row of angry emojis.

“Ohhhh, no. Oh, no. I’m in trouble.”

Part of Mac _does_ register that he is a grown-ass man. He’s been in the army. He’s spent literal years of his life laying within arm’s distance of armed IEDs. And also, Jack is not his dad so, there’s no real reason for him to feel like his blood is turning to ice.

Except that there’s something uniquely painful about disappointing Jack Dalton.

It kind of feels like leaving a puppy out in the rain.

A puppy with big, soulful brown eyes and a weird addiction to Bruce Willis.

“What’s up, chum?” Murdoc asks, poking his head in, since Mac neglected to shut the door after him.

“Oh, uh…” Mac looks at him, mildly panicked. “Nothing. Just—” He grimaces, swiping re-dial. “I missed about a hundred calls from Jack, so he’s definitely worried sick and also probably leading a SWAT team to my house right now…”

“You mean Papa Bear doesn’t even know you’re on a mission? Oh, Angus. Tsk-tsk.”

“Shut up.” Mac angles the phone so Murdoc isn’t visible on the video call.

Jack picks up after the third ring, and Mac is greeted by his furrowed, sun-tanned brow and a deep frown. It looks like Jack is planning on saying something smart-assed – until he notices the angry, violet bruise on Mac’s face. _“Ouch! Nice shiner, brother. You get into a fist fight with Mike Tyson?”_

Mac smiles. “Uh, not exactly, but—” That’s the moment Murdoc chooses to toss the bag of frozen peas at him, forcing him to catch it and almost drop the phone.

“That’s for you, cowboy.” Murdoc blows him a kiss before Mac angrily shoos him from the room.

 _“Who was that?”_ Jack asks. _“Your overwatch?”_

“Uh—yeah.” Mac shoots a glare at the empty space where Murdoc stood, then gets up to close the door adjoining their two rooms. He takes a step, then goes back and locks it, for good measure. “Yeah, he got me a bag of peas. For the bruise.”

Mac sits back down and presses the makeshift icepack against his jaw. It’s a little too late to reduce the swelling now, but the numbing cold is a relief.

_“That was nice of him. Is he good with a gun? Tell me he’s at least halfway-decent so I don’t have to worry.”_

“Well, he’s no Jack Dalton,” Mac puts him, hoping to make up at least a few brownie points. “But, yeah, I’d say he’s good with a gun…”

_“Just so long as he ain’t better than me, and he keeps a laser-focus on your ass, we’re all good.”_

Mac tilts his head. “You want my new overwatch to look at my ass?”

_“Very funny, smarty-pants. Here I am, going grey wondering whether my best buddy in the whole-wide-world is still alive and kickin’, and what do I get? Sarcasm. No, no, I see how it is.”_

Mac is laughing hard now, but he stops long enough to look meaningfully into the camera and say, “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up, Jack. My phone was in my suitcase, set to vibrate. I didn’t hear any of your calls or texts.”

Jack shakes his head in understanding. “Yeah, yeah. I know how it is when you’re in the thick of things. I’m just glad you’re all, Carl’s Jr.”

Mac snorts. “Thanks for understanding, Jack.” Then, “Oh! Guess what movie was just on?”

_“Die Hard?”_

“Die Hard!”

_“Eyy! Did you watch it!”_

“Um, of course?”

_“Yeah! That’s my boy!”_

They talk for about an hour, and by then, it’s nine o’clock and Mac is so exhausted from the day that he’s almost dozing off mid-sentence. The bag of frozen peas is abandoned and melting into the carpet, and he’s still pretty damp and muddy.

 _“All right, Mac,”_ Jack says after the third or fourth time Mac closes his eyes to blink and they don’t automatically open up again. _“You get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow if you’ve got the time.”_

“Mm, all right.” He rubs his eyes. “Night, Jack.”

_“Nighty-night. Don’t let the gun-totin’ goons bite.”_

Mac laughs tiredly as he clicks the button to hang up, then immediately falls backwards into bed, not caring that he has left a human-shaped wet mark on the blanket and a fair amount of mud…well, everywhere.

The cleaning staff is going to hate him, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s destroyed a hotel room. At least there’s no blood. Or disassembled guns. Or C4 laying around.

Rolling over, he buries his face in the soap-scented pillow and goes to sleep, mindless of the murderer in the next room.

* * *

It’s harder to ignore Murdoc when he wakes up, though.

Especially because Murdoc is in his room, seated primly on the window seat with his legs crossed, scrolling through Mac’s phone.

Mac startles awake at the sight of him, bolting upright and scrambling back into the headboard at the same time. He cracks his head against the wall in his blind fright, and that leaves him cringing and rubbing his skull. “MURDOC,” he rages. “ _What the hell_ are you doing in here?”

“Oh, good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I was just having a look through some of your frankly _adorable_ photos. You were so cute back in college with your long hair tied back in a ponytail, and that whole smart-frat-boy vibe you had going on.” He keeps scrolling, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! Look at Christmas Bozer! Isn’t he a sweetheart? But is that pastrami?” He looks questioningly at Mac, ignoring the fact that he’s plainly fuming. “Who does pastrami on Christmas?”

Mac scrambles off the bed, making a grab for his phone, only to have it whisked out of his hand as Murdoc deftly ducks under his arm and paces across the room.

“Oo-la-la, look at Riley in this one! She’s so pretty, and smart-to-boot! You know, I always did wonder why you two never got together.” Murdoc sidesteps another of Mac’s clumsy attempts to retrieve the phone. “Be truthful, MacGyver, is it because you’re still hung-up on Nicki? Because let me tell you what, that girl is more trouble than she’s worth.”

Finally, Mac manages to snag the phone out of his hand – only to find it on the lock screen. He stares blankly at the “pin number incorrect, please try again” message for a few seconds before whirling.

“What is this?” he demands, glaring Murdoc down. “A head-game?”

A head-game designed to make sure Mac knows that Murdoc is aware of every one of his weaknesses – like Riley. Like Bozer. The fact that Murdoc has watched them on Christmas, and seen pictures of them in college.

“A head-game? Of course, it’s a head-game, Angus,” Murdoc says, laughing. “Everything with me is a head-game; don’t you know that yet?”

Furious, Mac picks up the soggy bag of room-temperature peas and chucks them at Murdoc’s face. He ducks, of course, but the message is still well-received.

“Get out!” Mac snaps.

“Okay, okay, yeesh.” Murdoc walks out with his hands up in surrender. “It was just a joke, MacGyver. Lighten up.”

Mac slams the door and locks it, mostly for effect. It’s obvious the pitiful hotel lock is no deterrent to Murdoc whatsoever. He’s just turning away to try to cool down, maybe take a shower, when there’s another rhythmic tapping on the wall.

_Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. Tap. Tap._

Mac freezes, grinding his teeth. “What, Murdoc?”

His voice comes muffled through the wall. “I thought it might be of interest to you to know that I received the details for our meeting with Henri. We’re to meet him tonight, eight o’clock. I’ve sent the address to your burner phone.”

Mac rubs his sore jaw and grabs up his burner. Surely enough, there’s a text from Murdoc’s loaner phone, containing an address and—more annoyingly—a kissy-face emoji.

While Mac is forwarding the address to the Phoenix, a second text pops up.

“Still best friends?” Heart emoji.

“Stop texting me!” he yells through the wall.

Growling to himself, Mac double-checks that both doors are locked before peeling off his shirt and pants, both of which are crusty with mud and smell like an underpass. He shoves them into a plastic bag in his suitcase, lays out a fresh change of clothes, and is just heading into the bathroom for a hot shower when…

_Ping!_

“I swear to God if that’s Murdoc…” He goes back, picks up the phone, and stares, scowling, at the frowny-face and broken-heart emojis on the screen.

“I don’t normally care about the paycheck,” Mac says to himself – because that’s how far, mentally, Murdoc has already pushed him by day-two. Talking to himself. “But I do not get paid enough for this.”

He drops the phone onto the bed and walks into the shower.


	4. Hit and Run (LOLO)

The next day is, lovingly, nicknamed “Rehearsal Day” by Matty.

AKA, the day Mac trains non-stop on the fine art of how to convince a group of international terrorists that he’s a cold-blood murderer and escaped convict - or, as Murdoc calls it, “How to Make Friends 101.”

Mac’s room becomes central command for the op, with a laptop open and constantly streaming live to the Phoenix. Matty sits in almost every minute, frowning, watching with hawklike intensity at Mac’s every move, every gesture, every cut of his jaws. She’s chased a lot of bad guys in her time, she points out, so even if she can’t mentor Mac as to how to _be_ like a murderer, she can at least point out when it’s wrong. Or when it’s right.

Riley sits quietly in the back, her face dark and troubled.

Bozer says he’s busy in the lab, but Mac knows he can’t stomach the sight of him and Murdoc working together.

“We had a test-run at this with Omnus, if you recall,” Murdoc says. He’s lounging in the pale-green armchair next to the TV, tossing a hackie-sack in the air. He got it from room-service. Just to see if they would bring him one. Unfortunately for everyone, they did.

“I remember,” Mac says, studying his face in the bathroom mirror. His eyes are the trouble. _Windows to the soul,_ Murdoc sang. _Or, in my case, and Danny-boy’s case, the lack thereof._

“It wasn’t a bad run, from what I was told. I heard you ditched your own backup and stole a car to convince the client you were me. Not bad, MacGyver.”

“Yeah, it was a real learning experience,” Mac grumbles. “Except, it’s different this time.” Pushing away from the sink, he says, “Pretending to be you was easy. I was familiar with the way you talk and your mannerisms. But I’m not being you this time; I’m being Daniel Franklin. We have to decide what that means.”

“Indeed.” Murdoc’s mouth curls into a smile. He tosses the hackie-sack. “We get to create our very own, custom serial killer. How fun! It’s like Build-a-Bear, but instead of cute teddy-bears and little, plastic sunglasses, it’s by best buddy Angus and a great deal more guns?”

“Speaking of which…” Murdoc jumps up suddenly. It startles Mac, which irritates him more than he would like to admit. “How do you expect to convince Henri you’re a murderer if you hate guns so much?” He tosses the bag all the way to the ceiling; it falls back into his hand.

_“Mac isn’t without his own skills,”_ Matty points out. _“And once Halcomb sees what he’s capable of, I’m sure it won’t be hard to connect the dots for him.”_

“Hmm, I suppose. And I do _love_ watching you work, MacGyver; I do – I just hope Henri is as impressed as I am. He’s a bit of a traditionalist, that one.” Hackie-sack up; hackie-sack down. Hackie-sack up--

“We’ll make it work,” Mac says, swiping the bag out of the air before Murdoc can catch it. His first impulse is to throw it aside and force Murdoc to sit still and focus – but this is rehearsal time. And that’s not what Daniel Franklin would do.

Instead, he tosses it up, catches it, then hucks it (a bit too hard) to Murdoc, who manages to stop it from hitting him in the face – but just barely.

Mac smirks at his surprised expression. “Let’s Build-a-Bad-Guy.”

* * *

By seven-thirty that night, a half-hour before the designated meeting, there’s an air of tentative confidence permeating the Phoenix team (plus Murdoc).

Mac pulls on clothes resembling his normal style. It wouldn’t make sense to change it, now that Henri has already seen him.

“I sort of wish I could wear something different,” he confides in Riley over comms. “Going dressed as… _me_ kind of makes it harder to be someone else, you know? At least when I was pretending to be Murdoc, I got to dress like him – to get into character.”

_“I think I know what you mean,”_ she says. _“Wearing your normal stuff leaves you with no where to hide. It’s like wearing a Halloween mask of your own face.”_

“Exactly – I think.” He pauses, giving it some thought, but gives up a few seconds later. “Is it sad I kind of wish Jack were here?”

_“Why, so he could wring your neck for working with Murdoc?”_ Mac laughs dryly. _“No, it’s not sad. I mean, you know I think you guys have some serious co-dependency issues… But it’s also kind of sweet. Must be nice to have someone who’s always there, always watching your back.”_

“You have that, too, you know? I mean, me and Jack? Boze? Matty? We’re all there for you, Ri. All of us.”

He can hear her smile. _“I know.”_

It’s then that Murdoc returns from his errand, closing the door behind him and casting an appraising look over Mac. “Well, I got the rental car,” he says, hands on hips. In one of them, there’s a shiny key attached to a black fob. “My, my, my, Danny-boy. I must say, you bear the most striking resemblance to a Boy Scout federal agent I once knew.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mac says, striding toward him and snagging the key out of his hand. “Did you kill him?” Their eyes meet, Murdoc’s a few inches above his own.

A slow smile crosses his mouth. Murdoc leans in, generating a small breeze that smells of ivory soap and leather. “Not _yet_.”

Mac returns his smile. One that he hopes is as dark and chilling as the one he’s looking at. “Better watch yourself then, Murdoc, in case he decides to kill you first.”

A small tilting of the head. A strand of black hair falls across Murdoc’s eyes. Their faces are close enough that it shivers when Mac breathes. “Not likely. As I said, he’s a real Boy Scout. Doesn’t even carry a gun.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, Murdoc…” He blows on the air so it lands back with the rest, simultaneously making Murdoc blink. “I’m not a fan of firearms, either. They’re so…” He pauses, fishing for the word while he chews his bottom lip. “Predictable.”

Then, he brushes past Murdoc into the hall, swinging the key fob on one finger.

_“This is seriously creepy,”_ Riley says.

Mac agrees, but he’s in character and doesn’t want to break it so, he ignores her. Taking a page from Murdoc’s playbook, he whistles on his way to the elevator. He doesn’t start with a song in mind, but by the time Murdoc catches up to him, it sort of begins to sound like _Home on the Range._

Outside the elevator, Mac feels Murdoc’s arm snake around his shoulder. “Oh, I can just tell, Danny… You and I are going to have so much fun together…”

* * *

**_W A S H I N G T O N D. C._ **

**_T H E S K E T C H Y P A R T_ **

_“How are you holding up, Mac?”_

The GPS has led them down a bumpy back road, and every so often, the dark interior of the rent-a-car flashes when they pass under a street lamp. Murdoc is at the wheel, humming some tune Mac doesn’t recognize, and drumming his gloved hands on the steering wheel.

Mac turns toward the window, talking softly for some semblance of privacy. “I’m fine,” he assures her. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

_“That may be true,”_ Matty concedes. _“It’s your…present company I’m worried about.”_

Mac’s eyes flick to Murdoc, whose new comms are in his pocket. “It’s been…interesting. But like I said, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Are you talking about me?” Murdoc asks, giving him a quick, sideways glance and a smile. “Is that Matilda? Tell her I said hello.” He raises his voice. “Hi, Mom!”

Mac shakes his head at the windshield.

_“Look on the bright side, Mac – the sooner you get this done, the sooner you get to come home and say good-bye to Murdoc.”_

“Now that’s incentive,” he says with a laugh.

_“But be careful. Riley is watching you guys on satellite, but if anything goes wrong, your orders are to bug out, all right? Get your ass out of there.”_

His eyebrows go up. “You’re telling me to run if things go bad?”

Murdoc peers sideways again, apparently interested.

_“I’m saying you’re too important to lose, Mac,”_ she says firmly. _“And maybe I would be willing to take more risks if you had some real back-up there, someone we could trust, but since Murdoc is your only ally, and since we can’t be sure The Legion isn’t also monitoring satellite activity, we can’t get a tac team in there to guard you. You’ll have to make that call for yourself.”_

“I know. And I’ll be careful.” He can’t help but appreciate Matty’s concern for him. “Thanks, Matty.”

Right at that moment, Murdoc pulls the car into a pitch-black lot and they rumble to a stop.

“Righty-ho, sailor. I think we’re here.”

“All right, Matty, we’ve reached the address. Going radio silent.”

_“Good luck, guys.”_

“Oh, Matilda?” Murdoc says, popping in his earpiece. “Don’t you worry one bit about Angus. I’ll take extra-good care of our boy, all right?”

_“I hope you mean that, Murdoc. For Cassian’s sake.”_

Out of the corner of his eyes, Mac sees Murdoc grit his teeth – although his voice never reflects it. “Okie-dokie, it’s been a delight talking to you, Matty-dear. Too-da-loo!”

Radio silence officially established, Mac takes a breath and slips on his metaphorical Daniel Franklin costume – locking himself down, stretching differently in his own skin. Making himself cold-blooded.

He looks at Murdoc to find him already looking back.

“Ready to go, partner?”

Mac nods. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

* * *

“You’re sure this is the right address?”

“Daniel…if you ask me that one more time, I will be forced to take my GPS-enabled smartphone with the _correct_ address plugged in…and shove it down your pretty, little throat. Do you understand?”

_“Watch it, Murdoc,”_ Matty warns.

Mac ignores the idle threat and turns in a circle, taking in the scenery.

The building is clearly abandoned. And not just that, but _long-abandoned._ A faded-orange foreclosure sticker adorns the front entrance, its corners curled up. Mac counts five floors, each with a generous number of windows. Some are boarded, others with glass riddled with bullets holes, and others still broken out completely.

It sits far away from the highway, down a gravel path flanked by weeds, tangled brambles, and swatches of dead oak trees. About halfway down the “road” there was a wire fence they were forced to scale, but beside that, there’s been no sign of security. No vehicles, cameras, alarms to be found.

Curious, they agreed in shared whispers. Most abandoned buildings like this, especially in populated areas, are guarded to keep out looters, and explorers, and other assorted thrill-seekers.

“Welp.” Murdoc stuffs the phone into his pocket and cracks his knuckles. “Time’s a-wastin’. Let’s head in and meet the new boss.”

Mac grabs his elbow. “Are you serious?”

Murdoc eyes him curiously. “Daniel. Don’t tell me you’re _scared_.”

“It’s not that—” His eyes flash to the sketchy building and instantly, there’s a sinking feeling in his gut. Like each black window is an eye looking straight through him. “Something feels off about this.” It’s the same feeling he used to get back in the army…

“Well, of course, something feels ‘off.’ We’re walking into an abandoned building to meet with a group very, very bad men. In our line of work, you’d best get used to that. It’s not like our flavor of clientele favors high-end restaurants and five-star hotels.”

“I know that,” Mac growls, urging Murdoc to take him seriously, just this once. Lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he says, “Riley, are you seeing anything on the satellite?”

_“Nope. Nothing. Place is empty, Mac.”_

“Empty?”

“It would appear we’re the first to arrive,” Murdoc says coolly, but something in his tone is different now. He, too, is eyeing the ghostly structure ahead of them. “Then again, perhaps you’re right, Daniel. If Henri was going to welcome us into the fold with open arms, this feels like a rather somber place for it…”

Mac grips Murdoc’s elbow harder as his stomach continues sinking right into the grass. “There’s a bomb here,” he hisses.

At that, Murdoc wheels on him, eyes wide. “A bomb?”

“SHH! Shut up! _Yes,_ there’s a bomb.”

_“A BOMB?”_ Matty demands.

“What in the world makes you say that?” Murdoc swivels his head back toward the building.

Mac shakes his head. He’s never been able to explain it, but it’s why his training officers started calling _wunderkind_ back in EOD training. Some of his classmates used to tease him, saying he was better at sniffing out IEDs than any dog, radar, or scan combined. And even better at disarming them.

Digging his Swiss Army Knife out of his pocket, Mac rolls up his sleeves, making a determined beeline for the front door.

Murdoc starts to follow, but he stops him with a hand flat on his chest. “Stay here.”

“Why, what are you going to do?”

“If I’m right and there’s a bomb somewhere in that building, I can’t just leave it. If it goes off at the wrong time, it could kill someone.”

_“Hang on, Mac,”_ Matty says, the voice of reason. _“If you’re right, and there is a bomb in there, then most likely it was planted by Halcomb’s people, and you’re walking into a trap. The timer could already be ticking down, scheduled to blow during the time of your meeting.”_

“I know. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t leave it here, Matty. It goes against everything I was taught in EOD training.”

_“Think this through, Mac. If you’re right, it means you’ve been made, which means you and Murdoc are in some serious danger right now.”_

“And so are all the people in the area.”

Matty sighs, obviously uncomfortable at the idea of sending him into a structure that is most definitely rigged to explode – but she trusts him. She’s always trusted him to follow his gut. _“All right, blondie,”_ she says unhappily. _“If you think you can manage it, then do it—”_

He’s already going before she’s even finished her sentence.

_“—but watch your ass in there. If I let you go ka-boom on my watch, Jack will never forgive me.”_

“Will do, Matty. Going radio silent now. I need to focus.”

The front door is locked, so Mac picks the nearest first-floor window. All of them are boarded up to discourage the previously-mentioned intruders, but sheets of plywood hardly make it Fort Knox. Mac only has to twist out four screws, then carefully lift the board out to get inside.

Landing lightly on what feels like a cracked floor tile, Mac turns on his knife’s flashlight, casting the faint-blue beam around a cold, shadowed stairwell.

“Oh, Daniel,” Murdoc calls, appearing at the window.

“SHH! Keep it down!”

“My apologies.” He lowers his voice, peering past Mac into the building. “But are you certain you want to proceed alone? I thought my function in this little twosome was overwatch duty.”

“Your _function_ ,” Mac whispers, hearing his voice echo around him. “Is to keep watch out there and let me know over comms if anyone shows up.”

Murdoc looks like he’s going to argue the point further, but Mac doesn’t give him the chance. He turns on his heel and pushes through the door ahead of him, deeper into the abandoned building in search of the IED he’s certain is here.

* * *

Riley sounds tense when she picks up the phone. _“Uh, hey, Jack! Listen—I’d love to talk, but I’m a little busy at the moment—”_ Surely enough, he can hear her fingers slamming away at the keyboard. In the background, Matty’s voice is barely audible, but just clear enough that she sounds pissed as all hell. And in Matty-speak, pissed usually means something has gone horribly wrong.

He stops, swallows his mouthful of Dr. Pepper, and says, “What happened? Is it Mac?”

Riley goes on typing furiously. In the meantime, there’s a short pause in which she definitely looks at Matty for approval. And she must get a nod in return because Ri’s next words are, _“Yeah, it’s Mac. He ran into a little…unexpected problem on his op.”_

“What kind of problem?” Jack asks suspiciously. “The kind that usually requires me there, shootin’ bad guys?”

_“Not exactly… More like the explosive kind.”_

“A _bomb_?” He practically yells it, then instantly snaps his big yap shut, looking anxiously around the boardwalk to be sure no one heard him. Lowering his voice, he says, “Let me talk to Matty!”

There’s a pause, then Matty’s voice says, _“I understand your concern, Jack, but I really don’t have the time to fill you in right now. Our boy is scouting a five-story building for an IED that may or may not actually be there, and he needs me and Riley doing all we can with CCTV in the area.”_

Jack has shouldered past a couple of tourists— _other_ tourists—and is making his way away from the boardwalk toward the parking lot where he left his rent-a-car. “He’s doing this by himself? What the hell, Matty? Send the kid some support!”

_“I can’t. This op is deep-cover and if there’s even a slight chance that he hasn’t yet been made, then I can’t risk blowing his cover.”_

“Well, what about this overwatch I’ve been hearing so much about? Why isn’t he with Mac?”

_“He is, Jack, but he’s outside acting as a lookout. Listen—”_ Matty huffs impatiently. _“I will call you back when the crisis is over, but right now, I need all my attention on Mac.”_

“All right, that’s fine,” Jack says, sliding into the driver’s seat of his jet-black sports car. “But this job is feelin’ real hinky to me, Matty. I’m wheels up in one hour, heading home—”

_“No, Jack! You are not getting involved in this—”_

“Yes, Matty! Now, I understand secrecy; it’s part of the job. But what I _don’t_ like—” he says dangerously, throwing the car in reverse, twisting around as he backs it out, so fast the tires screech. “—I mean, what’s _really_ givin’ me the heebie-jeebies, Matty, is that I’m beginning to wonder whether this whole fancy trip was just a neat and tidy way of keepin’ me away from this mission.”

The stunned silence on the other end of the line is confirmation enough to make Jack grind his teeth.

“So, frankly, _Matilda_ , you have two choices; either I’m walking into the war room in five hours to find out what the hell is going on, or I’m gearing-up and go help Mac. And by the sound of it, I think I’ll be more useful to our boy wherever he is than sittin’ on my ass at the Phoenix.”

_“Are you attempting to give me an ultimatum, Jack? Have you forgotten I’m your boss and can order you to stay exactly where you are?”_

It’s an empty threat and they both know it. Matty is just as worried about Mac as he is. Especially if he’s been made. But the kid must be far from Cuba, or Matty would have given him the coordinates already.

“Where am I goin’, boss?” he asks, peeling out onto the highway.

She sighs heavily. _“There’s a private airport about thirty minutes from your hotel. I’ll send you the location on your phone. There will be a jet waiting for you.”_

He nods approvingly, veering into the turning lane toward his hotel. That means no tac team, which is fine. He and Mac have always been good enough, just the two of them. Plus, whatever help this mysterious overwatch can offer. “And my gear?”

_“I don’t know what to tell you, Jack. There’s only so much I can do in thirty minutes. So, either find some weapons or pull some of those strings you’re always bragging about and get some gear delivered to the airport. I don’t care at this point. I’m not even sure you’ll make it Mac in time for any of this to matter.”_

“Oh, I’ll make it.” His phone pings and he swipes to see the address, adjusting lanes as needed. There’s also another location listed. Must be Mac’s. “D.C.? A commercial flight from Cuba to the state capital is, what, just under three hours? On a private jet, I’ll make it in an hour-thirty.”

_“Good. And be careful, Dalton. I’m already at risk of losing one agent. I will not lose two; do you understand?”_

“Sure thing, boss. But one more thing. Who’s Mac’s overwatch on this? Can I trust this guy if things go sideways?”

The pause that follows is heavier than it should be.

_“I’ll brief you on the plane,”_ is all Matty says before the line goes dead. Jack glances down at the phone, a real bad feeling settling into his stomach.

That wasn’t ominous at all.

* * *

_“Mac?”_ Matty says, breaking radio silence and causing him to jump.

“What?” he whispers, swinging the beam of his flashlight through the next room. It’s huge and open, grey concrete floors and bare drywall. Exposed pipes and hanging wires. No sign of the bomb yet.

_“This is your formal heads-up. Jack found out about the job, and he’s on his way to you right now in a private jet. He’ll be there in less than two hours.”_

Mac stops mid-step. He recovers quickly, continuing his sector-by-sector of the premises. “Great. Does he know about Murdoc?”

_“Not yet. I wanted to defer to you on that one. There’s still a chance for you to disarm the IED and call him off. Or I can brief him on the plane. It’s up to you.”_

“He’s gonna be pissed,” Mac says to himself. Presently too focused on the IED, Mac rubs a hand across his face. “Okay. Maybe—”

Before he gets a chance to say what he was thinking, something catches his eye. A flash of silver against grey. Not metal, though. Duct tape.

He stops, turns his light on the distant shape. Instantly, his muscles tighten.

Stepping backwards carefully, suddenly hyper-aware of even the slightest breath of wind through the open windows, or crackling section of floor, he slowly opens the scissors attachment on his knife.

“Matty,” he says quietly. “I found it. I found the bomb.”

_“Where is it?”_

“Uh…second floor. About—” He looks up and down the sizable room he’s in. “Halfway between the fourth and fifth windows.”

_“I’ve got him,”_ Riley says.

_“Put him on screen.”_

Mac turns his head and sees, out one of the busted windows, a CCTV camera on a street lamp. It’s old—like vintage—but evidently, Riley must have gotten it back online.

“This is going to be hard to do in the dark,” he says, eyeing the shoebox-sized device nestled in the corner. “Any chance you can get the lights on in here, Riley?”

_“Uh…no, sorry. The building isn’t attached to the power grid anymore.”_

_“Mac, is the device armed?”_

“I don’t know yet.” He crouches low, squinting through the dark. Without knowing what type of explosive or trigger-system he’s dealing with, even shining his flashlight on it is dangerous, but from here, he can’t see any pressure plates or trip wires. No motion sensors either. “I’m gonna take a look.”

One step at a time, he inches closer, staying low and slow.

Several dragging seconds later, he finds himself kneeling before the device. Pieces of it are metal – a homemade casing, judging by the haphazard welding lines. But the box doesn’t contain the whole bomb. Other areas are expose. Jumbles of multi-colored wiring, a small logic board containing several tiny lightbulbs like you might see on a Christmas tree, and a timer.

“Hey, Matty,” he says, sitting back on his heel. “I’ve gotten a decent look at it, and I’m reasonably confident I can disarm it.”

_“That is excellent news, Mac,”_ she says. _“So, why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”_

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “Because there is, unfortunately. It’s not counting down yet, but there’s only a two-minute timer on this thing, and even though I’m pretty sure I can disarm it, I don’t know if I can in less than two minutes. If we get made now, we’re going to have a real problem on our hands.”

_“Then you’d best get started, blondie! Riley and I are keeping watch via satellite, and Murdoc is outside. He can hold off anyone who tries to come in after you.”_

“Yeah, about that—” Mac leans into the device, shining his flashlight inside of it now that he knows the light won’t set it off. “I need Murdoc to come in and shine a light on this thing so I can see what I’m doing.”

_“You can’t just make a light out of wires and drywall?”_ Riley says.

Mac smiles sardonically. “Even if I could, I have no source of electricity that I can reach. Like you said, the whole building is dark.”

_“All right,”_ Matty says decisively. _“You get set up. I’ll send him in.”_

_“And if baddies start rolling up?”_ Riley asks.

_“Then, they’ll just have to improvise, won’t they?”_

* * *

Not even a full minute later, Murdoc appears, gun in hand, sashaying as cool as anything into the room with the explosive. Even when Mac warns him to be careful, he just makes a show of tip-toeing then rolls his eyes.

“What, you think I haven’t been around _bombs_ before, MacGyver? I’m an assassin, remember?”

“You’re a sniper, not a bomber.”

“Oh, well – potato, potahto. Look, I know how to conduct myself in the same room as an explosive device so, stand down, Soldier.” Murdoc rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. “Matilda said you need me to hold a flashlight, so hand it over.”

Mac raises an eyebrow, but passes the knife to Murdoc. “You’re being…refreshingly direct. What’s up?”

“Well—” Murdoc turns the light on the bomb, his eyes scanning it. “Holding a flashlight may not be the most _exciting_ job I’ve ever had, but I do take my work very seriously. Plus, if I had to take a guess, I’d say we have about five minutes before our friends from The Legion roll up to make sure their bomb does its job.”

“You think it’s a remote trigger?” He looks down, eyeing the IED. He hasn’t seen evidence of a wireless relay yet.

“No, I think they’re going to waltz up here and press the ‘explode’ button themselves, then pray they can run out of here within two minutes.”

“Okay, I could live without the sarcasm.”

Murdoc growls. “You won’t live at all unless you get that bomb disarmed in the next five minutes. Seven, if you take into account its two-minute timer. That enough time for you, MacGyver?”

“It’ll have to be.”

“Yes, it will.” Murdoc stands back, shining the light on the bomb as Mac climbs down beside it, gingerly following curled wires with his fingertips. “Because I did not accept this job to deprive Cassian of his father. So, you can play the hero, MacGyver, but the moment I decide you’re taking too long, I’m dragging you out of here. Innocent casualties be damned.”

Mac shakes his head, taking the burner out of his pocket and prying off the back panel. He removes the battery and several of the chips inside. “You know,” he mumbles while he works. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the snark, Murdoc.”

“Disarm that bomb and I’ll snark you as much as you want, _Angus_.”

* * *

Although it’s been barely three minutes, the time seems to drag on. It always does when he’s working an IED. Everything is a calculation, a risk. Every small tug could mean death. Every finger ghosting over a screw could mean death. Every whiff of sulfur, and gas, and hot metal reminds him what lies inside the metal casing – a dangerous cocktail of chemicals that could level everything in the immediate area, killing everything and everyone.

At EOD training, they tell you not to focus on that. It’s unneeded stress. Just focus on the job.

But Mac never stops thinking about it the whole time, every time.

He’s never understood how you _couldn’t_ focus on it.

The room is silent except for the distant rumble of cars on the highway and his clothes scraping the concrete floor. Murdoc is uncharacteristically silent, and Mac has taken out his comms because the wireless transmission so close to the bomb could potentially set it off.

“How much longer, MacGyver?” Murdoc asks quietly.

“Uh…” He wipes his forehead. “It shouldn’t be long now. A couple more minutes.”

Silence.

“That okay? Or do you have somewhere you need to be?” Joking makes the job easier, somehow. Maybe it’s part of that distraction thing the EOD trainers were talking about, but he would do it to Jack back in the sandbox, and he’s doing it to Murdoc now. It’s like his thing with the paperclips. It helps him focus.

“Murdoc?” Mac peers sideways. Having been staring so intently at tiny wires and bits of metal, the sudden shift hurts his eyes and he blinks rapidly to adjust them. When he can see again, his skin prickles.

Murdoc’s head is turned away, staring at the stairwell door with the focus of a hawk.

Mac follows his gaze, but doesn’t see anything. “What?” he asks.

Murdoc glances at him, seems to weigh a decision in his mind. “How well do you work under stress?” he asks.

Well, that’s not an ominous question. “You should know,” he points out, and Murdoc hums.

“I’ve just been informed by Matilda and Miss Davis that a fleet of black Humvees is currently driving very, very quickly down the interstate in this direction. And the first of them just took a right down the gravel path headed this very way.”

“So, we’ve got company?”

“Lots.”

“Okay, well… New plan.” Mac’s eyes flash around the room, taking in electrical wiring, ceiling tiles, boards, and screws. “Congratulations, Murdoc. You’ve been promoted from flashlight-holder to assistant-engineer.” He lays down beside the bomb again, getting back to work. “Keep that flashlight on the device, but go ahead and open up the screwdriver tool. You’re going to need it in a minute.”

“MacGyver,” he argues. “It is drawing very near to the time when I grab you by your scrawny ankle and drag you out of this building.”

“Noted. Keep the light steady.”

* * *

Mac’s eyes are burning from working in the dark, but they burn even worse when the light suddenly returns.

He cringes, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ah—are you done with the shield?”

“I am,” Murdoc says, crouching low to inspect what Mas been laboring over for the last four minutes. “Are you done with your little project?”

“Just about.”

Just then, the sound of tires on gravel raises the alarm with Murdoc. He jumps to his feet, leaving Mac in the dark again, and runs to the window, pulling out his gun. By now, Halcomb will have realized he can’t arm the bomb from a distance – so his men will have to come barging in to see why not.

“They’re heeere,” he sings.

Mac goes back to the bomb, fiddling with his last few adjustments. Finishing touches, really. He just hopes they work… “How many?”

“I count…five, ten, fifteen…twenty. Twenty in total.”

“Damn. Halcomb wasn’t messing around.”

“No, he never does. Always one for over-kill.” Ducking low, Murdoc returns to Mac. “One time, he shot a man thirteen times in the chest, after he was already dead. Emptied a whole clip and then one more round into him.”

Mac grimaces. “Sounds like a waste of ammo.”

Murdoc gapes at him, then laughs. “See! You get it! That drove me _absolutely bonkers_ when he did that. SUCH a waste of ammo!”

Low voices rise up from the lot outside, and that’s their cue to go. Mac grabs Murdoc by his arm, pulling him along to the opposite end of the room, where the hastily-constructed barrier of plywood is ready for them. It’s only two panels wide, just wide enough for them to crouch behind, but six panels thick.

Should be strong enough to withstand the blast.

Should be.

_“Are you sure this is going to work?”_ Matty asks. _“Because if this ‘contained blast’ of yours accidentally wipes out half of downtown D.C. I’m going to have to answer a lot of awkward questions, Mac.”_

“If it doesn’t work,” Murdoc puts in before Mac can speak. “Your bureaucratic troubles will be the least of Angus’s problems.”

_“Okay. Fair point.”_

Huddling together behind the blast barrier, Mac is forced to be closer to Murdoc than he might care to be – but it’s better than dying. An electrical wire from the ceiling runs between the bomb shelter and the bomb, attached to a makeshift pull-trigger Mac whipped up using the pieces of his cell phone and a couple more wires.

If everything he did was right, the bomb will only go off at a third of its normal strength, which will probably level the building…but this corner of the room is structurally sound, and they’re somewhat safe behind their little shelter, so…

Here goes nothing.

Heavy footsteps are echoing in the stairwell. Lots of them. It won’t be long now…

Beside him, Murdoc is tense, and understandably so. But there’s one thing that doesn’t add up.

Mac glances at him, wire in hand. “You don’t have to be here to make this work, you know? You could have left.”

Murdoc scoffs. In the dark, his expression is hard to make out. “Oh, please,” he says. “If you die, the mission is a bust and I’m going back to jail and will likely never see my son again – which is no life at all.” He shifts in a way that reads as discomfort. Or vulnerability. His eyes flash to Mac, and for the first time since Mac has had the misfortune of knowing him, Murdoc seems to have said something he didn’t mean to say. Something honest.

As if to bury it under a pile of sarcasm, he adds, “Besides, I have every faith in your abilities, Angus.”

“Aww,” Mac says, smiling. “That’s sweet, Murdoc.’

He rolls his eyes. “I keep telling you Phoenix people that I’m a darling to be around, but for some reason, no one ever believes me.”

“Could it possibly be all the murder?”

“Possibly.”

Their shared laughter is strained with nerves as the first of The Legion’s men come busting into the room, fanning out, geared-up in black Kevlar and machine guns.

They don’t see Mac and Murdoc at first, hidden behind their bomb shelter as they are, but seconds later, there are shouts of alarm.

“They’ve done something to the device!” one yells. “There’s a wire! Leading to—”

_“Now, Mac!”_ Riley calls, and he agrees.

Right now.

Yanking the wire, Mac throws himself to the floor and covers his head, pulling Murdoc down beside him. A second, later—

_BOOM!_


	5. Pumped Up Kicks

Jack feels bad about Aymee, his wicked-smart Cuban girlfriend, who he left behind on the island without a good-bye or a kiss on the cheek.

He considers calling her, then thinks better of it. How would he explain his sudden rush off the island on a private jet? He was supposed to be a bathroom tile salesman.

Still sucks, though.

Leaning his forehead on the plane window, he peers down to see nothing but ocean and clouds beneath him. They’ll be flying over Florida soon, and in just under two hours, he’ll be in the same city as Mac.

The flight attendant comes back to offer him a drink and he accepts happily. Just as he’s about to take his first sip of liquor, his phone starts ringing. It’s Matty, but he’s not surprised. She said she’d brief him on the plane.

“Hey, Matty,” he says, popping the cork on his single-serve drink. “You ready to fill me in on who Mac’s overwatch is now, or is there some reason for this mystery?”

_“Jack.”_

He stiffens at her tone. The hard bite of the _J_ that trails softly into the _K_ , like she doesn’t have the emotional strength to get the whole way through one syllable.

“What?” he asks, standing up. The cabin bumps over some turbulence, but he hardly feels it, bracing himself on the luggage carrier.

_“I’m about to tell you something you’re not going to like. And I need you to remain calm.”_

Remain calm? What the hell kind of conversation are they having right now?

“Yeah, okay,” he says faintly, squeezing the lip of the shelf overhead. “I can do calm. But, uh, why? What’s going on, Matty?” His laughs weakly.

_“We just lost contact with Mac.”_ She takes a breath. _“He didn’t have enough time to disarm the IED in the building, and decided to detonate it on purpose instead, in order to take out the enemy forces approaching his location.”_

Jack sways. “He WHAT?”

_“Hold on, Dalton. Before blowing the device, Mac was able to cut its lethality by something like seventy-five percent. And he blew it from a safe place, but…”_ She sighs. _“But we lost sight of him in the fallout. His comms are gone, and none of our cameras in the area are strong enough to find him. And…there’s another issue.”_

Jack rubs a hand over his face, feeling cold and sick, and wishing he never took this dumb-ass vacation in the first place. “What is it?”

_“The matter of Mac’s overwatch.”_

“I’m assuming you lost contact with him, too.” Jack slumps into his seat. This is shaping up to be a real bad day…

_“Yes, we did. But that’s not the problem.”_

He perks up, frowning. “What is, then?”

_“Mac and I agreed to keep this quiet, especially from you, to avoid any undue friction in the team… But since we have no idea what you’re walking into, I think it’s best that you know.”_ Matty stops to take a breath, and in that second, things start lining up – even before she speaks.

See, Jack plays the dummy sometimes. Because, let’s face, it – he ain’t always the sharpest tool in the shed. Especially when he’s sitting next to Mac. Or Riley. Or, hell, most of the people at the Phoenix.

But he ain’t stupid.

And there’s only one son of a bitch in the whole, wide world that Jack could see being on this mission right now. A top-secret op? An even-more-secret badass who’s good with a gun? And someone Jack hates enough that Mac and Matty thought he needed to be 1,200 miles away?

Yeah. Even before Matty says the asshole’s name, Jack is already biting on it.

Murdoc.

* * *

The first thing Mac registers is a dull pain in his lower back. He’s lying on something.

Bits of drywall trickle onto his face. More of it clogs the air in a choking cloud of dust and particulates. A shaft of moonlight slices the darkness from a hole in the ceiling that wasn’t there before. And it’s hot. Something is on fire.

“Go, go!” the voice comes muffled through the ringing in his ears. Heavy footsteps shiver up his back – vibrations in the floor.

There’s a piercing sound, too. A shrieking that isn’t associated with his tinnitus.

His hand is clumsy, fingers feeling too fat and kind of cold. He digs the broken comm piece out of his ear, then lets his head hit the floor.

That digging pain in his back is sharper now and he squirms, trying to buck off of whatever it is, but it seems to follow him. And the ache only gets worse the more he moves, going from a dull thudding to a stabbing pain that takes his breath away.

“Clear!” says the distant voice. Mac hears crunching footsteps growing nearer. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs stopping him from thinking.

What happened? He remembers…he was on a mission. There was a bomb. No time to diffuse it, but just enough time to use it against the baddies… And Jack—

No, not Jack. Someone else. Who was it?

His head is spinning. The pain in his back is starting to take center-stage in his train of thoughts.

Next to him, something is rustling. Like cloth or leather. There’s a grunt. The sound of something sliding.

_Click._

For a brief instant, Mac’s brain washes clear of distractions, of pain, of confusion. His whole existence sharpens to the soft report of that sound. He’s heard it ten-thousand times before. In the sandbox, in the barracks, in the Phoenix, in a thousand different cities in a hundred countries.

The sound of a gun being cocked.

Try as he might, he can’t twist away from whatever is holding him down, and it’s too dark to see anything anyway. But his heart is racing, and he feels the pulsing echo of it in his back. The pain is getting really, really unbearable now…

He whines without meaning to, but then a hand closes over his mouth and his breathing stops with the shock.

A leather glove.

“Lay still,” Murdoc whispers. It’s his hand, his glove. His knee pinning Mac’s legs to the floor, keeping him immobile. In the darkness, he’s a shapeless shadow. Black against black.

The footsteps are growing closer.

Murdoc’s shadow shifts. The knee presses down harder, using Mac as leverage as he aims the weapon out into the destroyed building.

So, that’s what happened. The bomb went off, taking out any of the baddies that happened to come in first. But they weren’t alone. And now their friends are pissed, and they’re coming to make sure the job gets finished.

The job of killing Murdoc and the federal agent he tried to play off as an ex-con, that is.

Halcomb must have made them immediately. Murdoc said he was untrusting, and he wasn’t kidding.

There’s a beat as Murdoc aims in the dark, and then—

BANG!

Followed by the telltale _thump_ of a body hitting the floor. And a bewildering mess of shouting as the Legion members scatter, taking up positions of cover.

But there’s one thing to be said about Murdoc.

He’s one hell of a killer.

Not even a minute of gunfire is exchanged. Shell casings ping to the floor around Mac’s head, adding to his dizziness, but soon, it’s over. Whatever backup the initial Legion members had are dead.

And Murdoc’s clip isn’t even empty.

The weight of his knee lifts from Mac’s legs, but somehow, that makes the pain worse.

He gasps, grabbing something on the floor for purchase and squeezing until his nails bite into it. He thinks he knows what happened now. When the bomb went off, he must have gotten blasted backwards - _into_ something. A shard of glass, or a piece of debris, or some other shrapnel.

Murdoc is moving now, ignoring Mac’s pained gasping.

His footsteps recede with purpose, like a tiger prowling, then return. He’s sweeping the room, making sure it’s clear.

When he comes back, he stands over Mac. A faceless ghost in the blackness. “Where’s your knife, MacGyver?” he demands.

“My—” Mac flinches, groaning. “My knife? It’s— _You_ had it.”

Murdoc huffs, more annoyed than he has any right to be, given the circumstances. He’s not the one stuck to the floor. “I gave it back to you,” he growls, crouching beside Mac and frisking his pockets. When he finds it, he pulls it out and instantly switches on the light.

It’s only a tiny flashlight, but it blinds Mac. He yelps, wrenching his head to the side as his vision flashes with spots.

“I don’t think any more of Henri’s men are coming yet,” Murdoc says, sweeping the light around the room. “Your little trick with the bomb seems to have worked. As always, I’m delighted by your talents, MacGyver.”

Mac hears him from a great distance, as if through a long train tunnel. His head is getting fuzzy again, but before he can fade out entirely, Murdoc slaps him.

And then he slaps him again, harder than necessary.

“Ah, ah, ah, MacGyver,” he says lightly, his smiling face lit like a Jack-o-Lantern by the tiny light. “It’s not nap time.”

“What—” he moans, hands reaching down to investigate his back. “What am I—”

“Impaled upon? I haven’t quite been able to tell. A nail, perhaps?”

Mac groans at the thought, and the steadily mounting pain. It hurts a hell of a lot worse than a gunshot, that’s for damn sure. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re going to have to pull me up.”

“Sure thing, good buddy.” Without warning, Murdoc grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and viciously _yanks_ him up.

Mac bites his scream in half, but the second part of it escapes anyway when Murdoc roughly tosses him aside.

“Oh, look, I was right! It was a nail! Ooh, a _big_ one! I bet that smarts, eh, Angus?”

Mac is on his side now, warm blood seeping through his fingers when he reaches back to investigate the puncture wound. It’s low, so there’s no risk of it piercing a lung, but his kidneys aren’t out of the question, unfortunately.

“An- _gus_?” Murdoc sings, traipsing over. “Aww, does Macky have a boo-boo? Do the baby need a Band-Aid?”

Mac cuts his eyes toward him with a growl. It must not be very threatening, however, because Murdoc only rolls his eyes.

“As much as I _adore_ seeing you writhing in pain, covered in blood, I think we should probably get a move on, don’t you, MacGyver?” He reaches down and roughly pulls Mac first to his knees, then to his feet, looping an arm over his shoulders.

Mac fights him. He doesn’t want Murdoc’s help.

“Can you walk?” Murdoc demands, growing annoyed again.

“ _Yes,_ ” Mac seethes.

“Then stop being such a drama queen and _walk_. Honestly, you’re a professional.” Murdoc shoves him away, almost pushing him back to the floor, but Mac catches himself and manages to stay upright – if a bit hunched over. “We’ll steal their vehicle, but we can’t go back to the hotel.”

“Agreed…” They’ve definitely been made, and that means Halcomb probably knows where they’ve been staying.

“Fortunately for us, I have a safehouse in the city. We can stay there until your boss figures out what our next move should be.”

While Mac definitely has some reservations about going anywhere associated with Murdoc’s profession, it’s not as though they have tons of options at the moment.

As such, Mac follows him—slowly—down the steps to the parking lot. Murdoc doesn’t try to help him again. He walks a good ten feet ahead, whistling and twirling his handgun.

Mac is limping his way over when Murdoc busts out the Humvee window and hotwires the vehicle. By the time he gets in, Murdoc is opening glove compartments, center consoles, even digging in the backseat.

“What are you…looking for?” Mac pants, squirming in discomfort. The feel of leather against his injured back is somehow worse than the concrete floor. It burns like acid.

“Ah-ha.” From the back, he produces a black sat phone. “Remind me, MacGyver, what is Matilda’s phone number?”

Mac tells him, then rests his head against the seat, content to let Murdoc fill her in.

“He-llo, Matilda,” Murdoc says happily, the instant she picks up. “I imagine you must be very pleased to hear my voice right about now. What’s that? MacGyver? Oh, well, he’s a bit worse for wear, but what do you expect when you detonate a bomb ten feet away from your face? Hmm? Is he injured? Oh, yes, quite badly—”

“I’m fine, Matty!” Mac tries, but Murdoc swats him away.

“Honestly, didn’t your father ever teach you not to interrupt people when they’re on the phone? You know, before he _abandoned you?_ ” Murdoc huffs, then returns to the call. “As you can hear, he’s alive and conscious and all that. And don’t you worry, Team Phoenix, I’ll take good care of the little, blonde angel. What?”

Murdoc sighs, then hands the sat phone over. “She wants to speak with you, Angus.”

Mac takes the phone it holds it to his ear. His hand is shaking, so he leans it against the window. “Hey, Matty…”

_“It’s good to hear your voice, blondie. You gave us quite the scare.”_

“Yeah, sorry. But it worked. The device is no longer a threat.”

_“By the sound of it, it almost took you with it. Are you all right? Murdoc said you were hurt.”_

“Nothing I can’t patch up.”

_“Are you sure? Because you know how I feel about injured agents being in the field. I’ll send MedEvac right now if you need it—”_

“I know you will, Matty, and I appreciate it, but seriously, I’m fine.” Even as he speaks, he finds himself twisting against the pain, arching his back to keep it away from the leather, even though it’s bleeding heavily enough that it needs pressure on it. “Or I will be,” he amends. “Murdoc has offered to use one of his safehouses in D.C. as a temporary base until we get our next move worked out. Speaking of, you got an ideas?”

_“For now, stay at the safehouse and take care of yourself. Jack will be there in approximately an hour and a half. Once you reach Murdoc’s base, I’ll track your location and give him the updated coordinates.”_

Jack.

Mac almost forgot he was coming. It’s at once reassuring…and terrifying. “Did you tell him about Murdoc?”

_“I did.”_

“Do I even want to know how he took it?”

_“Let’s just say…he’s not pumped.”_

“Great,” Mac mumbles.

“Oh, Jack is coming? This is gonna be so fun, like a little reunion.”

* * *

The safehouse turns out to be…a house. Like, a normal one. Ranch style, white siding, red shutters. Bushes, tulips. The works.

“Well, what did you expect?” Murdoc asks, getting the key from under the doormat. It says “welcome,” like one you might see outside any other person’s house, anywhere. There’s no blood on it or anything.

“Um, I don’t know…a skyscraper penthouse with a helipad and an extensive collection of antique torture tools?”

Murdoc laughs and opens the front door. “Well, I’ll admit I have a few of those, as well. But there aren’t many residential buildings with helipads in the District of Columbia, so I settled for this quaint, little cottage. Stay here while I disarm the security system.”

After Murdoc disappears inside, Mac takes the opportunity to call Matty and tell her to ping the location of the house.

Murdoc returns a second later. “Righty-o, MacGyver. Welcome to my humble abode. If there’s blood on your shoes, please wipe them before coming in.”

If at all possible, the inside of the house is even more normal than the outside. Laminate flooring, cream-colored walls, a leather sofa, arm chairs, and a flat-screen TV on the wall. There’s light-blue area rug on the floor and a couple of lamps, too.

Mac couldn’t be more creeped-out.

“Come along, MacGyver,” Murdoc calls from the hall. “We’re going to the basement.”

Oh, wait. Yes, he could.

“Why?” Mac asks suspiciously.

Murdoc gives him a flat look. “So I can strap you into a chair, stick an IV in your arm, and torture you to death, all the while recording your screams on my phone to replay when I want to relax.”

Mac frowns at him until he dramatically rolls his eyes.

“ _Not really,_ MacGyver! Really! Get a sense of humor.”

Mac shakes his head and limps toward where Murdoc is waiting. “What’s in the basement?” he has to ask.

“Guest quarters.” He flicks on the light, illuminating a set of stairs leading into a dimly-lit, unfinished basement.

“The willing kind of guest or the unwilling kind?”

Murdoc smirks at him. “Depends on the day, buddy-boy. What matters is there’s a bathroom down here with these wonderful tiles I picked out. Blood cleans off of them so well.”

“Why do I feel like that’s not a happy accident?”

“Oh, MacGyver…” Murdoc holds the back of his shirt so he doesn’t pitch forward. “You know me so well.”

* * *

So, that’s the story of how Mac ends up shirtless and bleeding in the bathtub of an international assassin. Bleeding quite a lot, actually. And it’s starting to hit him.

“Hmm, I could have sworn I had gauze around here somewhere.” Murdoc opens the medicine cabinet, rubbing his chin. “Maybe it’s under the sink.”

Mac lets his head rest on the back of the tub. His eyelids feel heavy, but he forces them to stay open. Beside him, the stolen sat phone rests on Murdoc’s famous tile floor (light-pink, by the way. Probably why blood is so easy to hide on it.)

_“How are you holding up, blondie?”_ Matty asks, her voice soft and staticky through the phone.

He shifts, doing his best to stay awake. “Mm, fine. All things considered.” There’s a towel bunched up under his back, soaking up the blood and hopefully keeping most of it in him. “What’s Jack’s ETA?”

_“About thirty minutes. Hang in there, okay?”_

“Yup. Hanging.”

“Oh!” Murdoc turns, presenting an unopened box of gauze, like a kid with a science fair project. “It’s your lucky day, MacGyver.”

Mac regards him for a second. “Doesn’t feel very lucky.”

“It doesn’t? Well, it feels marvelous to me.” Murdoc approaches the bathtub, tearing open the cardboard and dumping the roll of gauze onto the side. He gestures for Mac to sit up, to give him access to the wound on his back, but Mac just stares at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I was going to treat your wound – unless you think you can reach it yourself.”

_“I’m sorry,”_ Matty cuts in, sounding about as astounded as Mac feels. _“Did Murdoc just say he was going to treat your wound?”_

“That’s what he said.”

_“Murdoc, are you sure you didn’t get hurt in that explosion too? Like, maybe a life-changing head injury that turns you from a murderous psychopath into a decent human being?”_

Murdoc sneers at the phone. “Oh, ha-ha. Very funny, Matilda. Unlike you and Angus, I can actually take a joke, however.”

Mac is smirking; he can’t help it. He already feels sort of drunk from the blood loss and the pain, and this whole situation is so fucking weird.

Grunting, he peels himself off the towel, giving Murdoc access to what is surely a tiny entry wound. Barely 5 millimeters around, however, depending on the size of the nail he landed on, it could be up to six inches deep.

It sure felt like a deep wound.

Murdoc clicks his tongue thoughtfully, gloved fingers probing the area around the injury. Even though he doesn’t touch it, the skin around the area is tender, and Mac hisses, squeezing the edges of the tub. Sitting up, he can see the shallow river of blood running between his legs to the drain.

“You’re up to date on your Tetanus shots I hope, Angus.”

_“How bad is it?”_

“Well…” Murdoc’s fingers move closer to the wound, tugging the skin, probably to judge how deep it is. Mac bites hand to keep from screaming again, and he gets the feeling that Murdoc is enjoying this too much. “It’s giving me the warm-fuzzies, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s…not great?”

_“Do you have what you need to clean and dress it properly? I can redirect Jack to a drug store, if need be.”_

“Don’t you know me well enough by now, Matilda, to know that I am _always_ prepared for every situation?”

_“You didn’t seem super prepared for dealing with The Legion’s guys. Or for the bomb. Or for Halcomb making you,”_ Matty points out.

Murdoc doesn’t have a good comeback for that. Instead, he _humphs_ and mutters, “You know what I mean.” Yanking the towel out from behind Mac and tosses it in the general direction of a clothing hamper by the sink, he reaches up and takes down the shower hose.

Mac stiffens. He knows what’s coming.

And it’s gonna suck.

The water sputters when it first comes on, then blasts out a powerful spray of cold water. Powerful enough that it stings even the parts of his skin that _aren’t_ tender.

Mac holds himself still, but preemptively leans his head between his knees. “That’s some good water pressure,” he comments weakly.

“Nothing but the best for my houseguests.” Then, he turns the spray on Mac’s wound, clamping a hand over his mouth at the same time, to smother his screaming. Wouldn’t want to bother the neighbors, after all.

* * *

When the wound is thoroughly rinsed, the tub is filled with an inch of pink water, Murdoc shuts off the shower and towel-dries Mac’s back, a process that is only mildly easier than the water.

_“Are you okay, blondie?”_

Mac nods, forgetting Matty can’t see him. He’s shivering too badly to speak anyway, hugging his knees with his head between them.

Thankfully, Murdoc translates. “He says yes.” Disappearing briefly from the bathroom, he returns with another unopened box. This one is white and orange with big green lettering that reads ANTIBIOTIC OINTMENT.

Mac is too woozy to have much interest in the careful removing of Murdoc’s gloves, or the opening of the box, or unscrewing on the cap. The ointment has a strong medicinal smell, and a cold bite when it touches his skin.

“How the tables have turned, MacGyver,” Murdoc says quietly behind him, rubbing in the pungent-smelling cream with his thumb. “Me, saving your life. Who woulda’ thunk it?”

“I bet it’s d-driving you nuts,” Mac manages to get out between chattering teeth.

“Oh, absolutely. It’s like locking a bloodhound in the same cage as a little, baby chick and ordering the dog not to rip its tiny, fragile body to shreds.” He finishes up by padding the injured area with a clean cloth, then wrapping the gauze tightly around Mac’s hips.

No sooner than he tucks the end of the bandage into place, there’s a noise upstairs. It takes Mac’s foggy brain a moment to recognize it as a doorbell.

Murdoc has a doorbell. So weird.

“That’ll be Jack,” he mumbles, suddenly more eager to see his friend’s face than he ever has been before. Just the thought of not being alone with Murdoc anymore is enough to bring a dumb smile to his face, despite all the pain and misery.

_“Uhh…it shouldn’t be,”_ Matty says, ruining his mood in an instant with her careful tone. _“According to what I’m looking at, Jack is still a good ten minutes out.”_

Mac lifts his head, but Murdoc is already rising slowly. His face is an emotionless mask as he draws the gun from his waistband and edges toward the stairs.

“I don’t suppose you’re expecting anyone,” Mac whispers, struggling to push himself out of the tub.

“As a rule, I’m not.”

“Then, who—”

They receive their answer when the front door is busted in with an ear-piercing _CRASH!_

_“Mac, what’s happening!”_ Matty demands.

“Must be Halcomb. He found us,” Mac answers grimly, eyes flashing around the small, pink bathroom for a plan. But his head is foggy, and he can’t make sense of any of the items around him.

_“Guys, get out of there! Now!”_

Murdoc fires twice through the basement door, hitting someone if the startled yelp Mac hears means anything, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t have nearly enough ammo to hold them off.

Mac pries himself out of the water, feet slipping on the tiles as he grabs Murdoc by the back of his coat and hauls him into the relative cover of the bathroom.

“Murdoc,” he gasps, holding his injured back. “Tell me there’s another way out of this basement.”

Wild, black eyes hold on him for a moment, thinking, then he nods. “This way.”

They make their break through a hail of gunfire from the other side of the door. Amazingly, neither of them gets shot, but Mac is seeing stars. He’s on the precipice of fainting, and Murdoc must know that. He hauls Mac by the back of his shirt again, pushing him into the next room and slamming the door closed.

“The window,” he orders, jabbing a finger at the small casement close to the ceiling. It likely just wide enough for them to squeeze through. While he covers the door with his pistol, Mac staggers toward the computer desk in the corner of the bedroom.

Shoving its contents to the floor with a _crash_ , he drags the table across the room, positioning it under the window, breathing hard to stay conscious.

There are heavy boot falls on the steps, coming down.

Murdoc shoots twice through the door, hitting another of Halcomb’s men before squeezing the trigger and receiving an empty _click_ - _click_. He growls, whipping his head around to find Mac prying open the window. “I’m empty.”

“Help me with the window, then.”

Murdoc crosses the room in two strides, hopping onto the table, and shoving the window open with ease – a testament to how weak Mac is feeling. He hops down then, tossing the mattress off the bed.

“What are you—”

“What do you think?” Murdoc snaps, producing a black gun case from a hole cut out of the box-spring. “Out. Now.” He pops the snaps and removes a sleek, black rifle with a scope and four magazines.

Obediently, Mac hauls himself through the window, fingers scraping at the concrete of a back patio. As soon as he’s through, he rolls out of the way, making room for Murdoc.

There’s more gunfire from inside, then he scrambles out next to Mac.

Unfortunately, their daring escape hardly matters.

In the time it takes them to get to their feet, they’re already being swarmed by faceless goons in black helmets.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!” one shouts, prompting the three men to level their own deadly firearms at Murdoc’s face.

He has no choice but to consent, kicking the rifle away and holding up his hands with a sneer.

He and Mac are wrestled viciously to the ground, their wrists bound with zip-ties. One of the Legion leans his knee right into Mac’s wound while he’s restraining him, and he cries out, gaining a laugh from Halcomb’s guys.

The last thing Mac is consciously aware of is Murdoc’s face turning toward him. There’s a bloody scrape on his chin, probably from being shoved to the ground, and his dark hair is hanging in pieces over his eyes.

His mouth is moving, too, saying something that Mac can’t hear through his buzzing head.

It looks like, “Stay with me, MacGyver. Stay with me.”


	6. Bad Romance

No one in the war room dares take a breath.

Matty’s folds her hands together over her mouth like she’s praying, but her eyes are wide and laser-focused on the images on the screen. “Riley?” she asks in a soft, hoarse whisper.

Playing on the wall is a real-time feed of Mac and Murdoc being thrown to the ground and restrained, their struggling grunts sounding filtered and far away. Mac goes limp in his captor’s hands then, his head dangling against his chest. He stops fighting altogether, even as he’s violently tossed into the back of a sketchy-looking van.

“He’s unconscious,” Bozer realizes in quiet horror.

“I’ve got a lock on the vehicle Mac and Murdoc are in,” Riley confirms, easing the tension in the air just a bit. Matty actually exhales. “But there’s no telling how long I’ll be able to keep it. Jack needs to get his ass there, now. We need physical eyes on that van.”

“I’m calling him now,” Matty says, marching out of the room.

* * *

How the tables have turned, indeed. It’s not often Murdoc gets kidnapped.

The room they’re in is rather sizable, dimly lit by a single, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling by a delicate chain. The floors and walls are thick concrete, the door made of reinforced steel. Every inch of this place is sure to be soundproof. Oh, how he would like to play in here. If only he weren’t restrained.

The smell of the air is overwhelmingly earthy. Soil and organic rot. A basement, somewhere damp. Perhaps it’s storming where they are, or they’re near a body of water. Could be useful information, assuming they can get their hands of phone.

His back protests their captor’s choice of seating arrangements. A dented folded chair, with his hands tied behind his back, plastic zip-ties biting his skin. Murdoc stretches, feeling bruised and sore.

So far, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Henri or his people, save for the goons who attacked them, threw bags over their heads, and knocked them out. Well, knocked _him_ out. MacGyver was already out.

Speaking of the blonde Boy Scout, he’s in a chair back to back with him, close enough that Murdoc can reach out and feel his fingers, which are cold and motionless.

Murdoc doesn’t waste time trying to wake him. Even if he does rouse, he’ll be of absolutely no help in his current state. Better to just leave him sleeping.

That decided, Murdoc starts working on his escape, which starts by turning his hands. You see, your wrists are thicker when your palms are facing down, so if you are being restrained, it’s always a good idea to present your wrists face-down so slipping out will be easier. All he needs to do is twist his hands so his palms are facing up and start pulling them free of the zip-ties, thumb first.

See? MacGyver isn’t the only one who knows things.

The plastic cuts him as he struggles, but he’s just getting the thumb of his right hand free when the heavy, steel door unlocks.

Murdoc stills, letting his arms rest at his back. When he sees who it is, he brightens. “Oh! Hello, Henri! How good to see you again. How are you? How’s the missus?”

Henri regards him coolly. “Murdoc,” he says, a man of few words, as always. The door slams shut behind him, but not before he’s joined by two muscle-head men in black.

Quite casually, Henri approaches his captive. When he stops, just short of a foot away, he sticks his hands in his pockets and stares down at Murdoc. Not talking.

Murdoc smiles, tilting his head. “What’s with the long face, there, old buddy old pal? You look like someone took a wee-wee in your Mini Wheats.”

Henri makes a dry noise in his throat, which is what passes for laughter with him. “Well, in a manner of speaking, someone did.” He bends at the waist, staring directly in Murdoc’s eyes, close enough that he can smell the Tobacco on his black moustache. “You did, Murdoc.”

“ _Moi?_ I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. As a matter of fact, I’m a little foggy as to why I’m here, restrained to a chair in this dank basement. I thought we were going to be coworkers again.” Murdoc lowers his voice, smiling. “Is this some kind of hazing? Or initiation? Do we all get matching hats at the end?”

Murdoc’s head snaps back, the salty-metallic taste of blood gushing down the back of his throat. Henri’s knuckles are smeared red.

“Are you ready to give me the truth now?” Henri asks, as cool as ever.

Murdoc spits. His nose is on fire, suddenly blocked with blood and swelling closed. When he breathes through his mouth, all he tastes is blood, too. He spits again. “The truth? You know I always tell you the truth, Henri. You’re my bud!”

“Good.” Henri straightens, wiping Murdoc’s blood on his pants. “Then tell me – your blonde friend, who is he?”

Murdoc feigns surprise, turning his head as much as he can to look at MacGyver’s slumped form. “Oh, him? He’s Angus MacGyver, a U.S. federal agent working with the Phoenix Foundation.” At Henri’s obvious surprise, Murdoc smiles and adds, “If you’d like to file a complaint to his supervisor, her name is Matilda Webber. I can give you her phone number. I recently memorized it.”

“You’re working with federal agents now, Murdoc? I never saw you as the type to flip.”

“Me? Flip? Oh, no, you’ve got it all wrong. See, my lovely friends at the Phoenix are blackmailing me with my son. You remember him, right? Cassian? Awful business, really, but hey, what’s a dad to do?”

“They’re blackmailing you?” Henri cuts his eyes over Murdoc’s shoulder, to MacGyver. Slowly, he rounds to the Boy Scout’s side of the room, eyeing him. “So, that’s what this was all about? This ‘Phoenix Foundation’ is trying to find my organization, and they used you to do it.”

“A-plus, Henri. I always knew you were brighter than you looked.”

Henri is quiet, then. Too quiet.

Murdoc remains cool, keeping his eyes forward. “Oh, _Hen-ri!_ Are we playing hide-and-seek now? You know, that game works much better when the players aren’t tied down. Or, _oh_! We could play dodgeball! Remember that game from back in school? I was never very good at it. I’d get kicked out every time for face-shots. I was a regular little sniper, even back then.” He laughs, but still, Henri is silent.

Finally, Murdoc gives into the temptation to peek.

He’s staring down at MacGyver with cold, gray eyes. And a knife in his hand.

Which means Murdoc needs to think quickly.

“ _OH!_ Henri, since we’re on the topic—” He speaks loudly over his shoulder, drawing Halcomb’s attention back to him. “—I need to ask you a favor.”

“A favor?” Henri appears next to him, leaning on the back of Murdoc’s chair, that knife in his hand catching the faint glow of the lightbulb. He turns the blade from side to side, as if showing off how sharp it is. “Let me guess. You want me to let you go, since you were blackmailed and none of this was your choice?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Murdoc smiles and leans in confidentially. “I betrayed you. That must we can agree on. Besides, I think we both know that if I wanted to get away, I’d already be gone.”

Henri narrows his eyes.

“No, the real favor I want from you…is to let me have the honor of killing MacGyver. Or, if not killing him, then at least let me play with him a little.”

Henri stares blankly. He doesn’t get it.

So, Murdoc explains himself. “You have _no idea_ how torturous it’s been for me these last few days, sharing a plane, and a hotel room, and rent-a-car with one of the—” He kicks backwards, striking MacGyver’s ankle hard enough to rouse him. “ _Disgusting_ federal agents using my own child to blackmail me.”

Henri takes a step back, a half of a smile playing on his mouth.

MacGyver is waking up now, moaning softly and struggling to lift his head.

“So, what do you say?” Murdoc asks, batting his eyelashes. “For old time’s sake?”

“Murdoc?” MacGyver says, finally coming around. “Where…?”

Murdoc ignores him. All of his focus is on Henri. “Well?”

And to his defense, Henri weighs the decision carefully. On the one hand, Murdoc is a known liar and a skilled killer. It’s a risk letting him go, even for something as intriguing as the idea of watching him torture the blonde Fed.

On the other hand, that kid disabled his bomb and set him back tens of thousands of dollars in manpower and resources. And Murdoc always was better at torture than him. He’s a real Picasso with a blade.

Rather than answering, Henri goes the steel door and knocks twice.

Murdoc is tense. So is MacGyver, who must now be understanding the severity of the situation he’s in. His fingers are moving, probably trying to slip out of the zip-ties.

He won’t have time.

The door opens and three more men step inside, joining the two others, plus Henri, who speaks to them. “Keep watch. We’re going to play a game.”

Henri returns to Murdoc’s side while his men lift their guns, training them on the prisoners. Flashing that knife again, the binds fall away from Murdoc’s wrists, clinking softly to the floor. He stays seated for the moment.

“You have ten minutes to have your fun,” Henri says, backing up to stand in the protection of his bodyguards.

Murdoc is delighted, honestly. “May I have a weapon?” he asks, practically bouncing.

“No. But you’ve never needed a weapon inflict pain, Murdoc.”

“Very true, very true.” Grinning from ear to ear, he rounds the chair, where MacGyver is staring at him. Those big, blue eyes taking him in, absorbing the reality of just how fucked he is.

MacGyver is not the type to show emotion when he doesn’t want to. Fear, and anger, and hatred – on his face, they’re all the same locked-down, brooding expression. Stiff jaw and hard eyes.

Not so now. Perhaps it’s the pain he’s already suffering, or the grogginess, or maybe just the shock of the whole situation – but little Angus MacGyver looks honestly afraid right now.

It makes it a whole lot harder for Murdoc to do what he has to do. Because right now, he just wants to sit and admire what a terrified MacGyver looks like, without any of the masks or bravado. It’s a thing of beauty.

But…he has work to do.

Crouching in front of him, Murdoc smiles at MacGyver through the gloom. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands. “I take it from those baby-blues that you weren’t expecting this. Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Murdoc, what about the deal? What about Cassian?’ Well, I’ll tell you.” He grabs the leg of MacGyver’s chair. It scrapes loudly as he pulls it closer to him.

“Cassian is my son,” he says through his teeth, feeling a thrill when MacGyver visibly shrinks back. “I will find him. No matter where your agency puts him, no matter how far away, no matter how much stands between us. I will find my son. And I don’t need you alive to do so. _Capisce?_ ”

* * *

“Matty?” Jack asks, taking cover behind a Jeep parked outside of the building. “I’m alone in the dark out here. Tell me what I’m doin’.”

_“Riley is working up a satellite link now,”_ she says. _“From thermal, it looks like the Legion has Mac and Murdoc in the basement. But—”_

“What? What?” He peers around the Jeep, taking in the short, grey building. It’s not visibly guarded, but he’d bet a million dollars they’ve got a hell of security system out here somewhere. And tons of guards just waiting to spring out.

_“Murdoc is loose.”_

Jack stills, gripping his gun. “What does that mean?”

_“I don’t know, Jack. We don’t have audio or a very clear image, but…but it looks like Halcomb just set Murdoc free. Mac is still tied up.”_

“That son of a bitch,” Jack snarls, readying himself. “He flipped on our boy.”

_“That would appear to be the case, yes.”_

“All right, that’s it. I’m going in.”

_“Wait, Jack, no! We’re seeing dozens on men inside that building. You cannot take them all on alone! Stand down until your backup arrives; that is an order!”_

“Matty—” He checks his gun, pats the bulletproof vest hugging his abdomen, and gets ready to pounce. “With all due respect, that is an order and I am one-hundred percent about to disobey, okay? Mac is in some real danger right now, and I ain’t leaving him in there alone.”

* * *

“Now!” Murdoc announces, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “We’re on a bit of a time-crunch, so as much as I love the foreplay, we simply do not have the time!”

He whirls, backhanding MacGyver right across his cheek.

His head snaps to the side with a lovely _CRACK_ of skin breaking.

From across the room, Henri laughs. A deep, hardy sound. At the same time, MacGyver grunts and gasps, shaking his head. If he wasn’t awake before, he is now.

“Son of a bitch,” he groans. A line of blood trickles down his cheek. When he lifts his eyes to glare at Murdoc, it’s through pieces of blonde hair damp with sweat. “You’re never going to find Cassian.”

_CRACK!_

His face whips to the other side, the strike almost toppling his chair.

Murdoc catches it before it fall over. He steadies it, leans close to Mac, bears his teeth. “And the Phoenix will never find you, Angus. Not _all_ of you, anyway. Maybe I can convince my good friend Henri to send them a finger or an ear as a Christmas present.”

There’s more laughter from the other side of the room, but Murdoc tunes it out. He’s vibrating, tipsy with bloodlust.

He looks up, meets Henri’s eyes, and holds out one hand. “What do you say, Henri? Just like old times? Just this once? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

And Halcomb—beautiful, sadistic, _stupid_ Halcomb—doesn’t even hesitate. He’s not trusting, but he is arrogant. And nothing makes a man so cocky as being surrounded by five armed men sworn to protect him.

So, he hands Murdoc the knife.

MacGyver goes stiff at the sight of it, the cut of the light on its silver blade. He’s working to control his face, but it keeps slipping away from him. Too bad this has to end so quickly. Murdoc was really enjoying seeing the famous MacGyver all worked up.

Oh, well.

Mac squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of the killing blow, but of course it never comes. Not to him, anyway.

There’s a moment of stunned silence after the knife plants itself into the windpipe of one of the armed guards. Unfortunately for them, that’s the least of their concerns once Murdoc has grabbed the dead man’s gun – a gorgeous fully-automatic rifle with a full magazine.

And yes, these guys are trained, and young, and uninjured – but come on.

This is _Murdoc._

The exchange of gunfire lasts only for a few seconds, and not a single bullet so much as grazes him. When it’s done, there are five dead bodies on the floor, quite a lot of blood on the walls, and casings pinging to the floor around his feet.

Henri is still alive, mostly because he was unarmed and therefore no threat.

But also because he’s really been getting on Murdoc’s nerves these past few hours and when he shoots Henri, he wants to savor it.

And he does savor it, the very next second. Double tap to the chest and a neat one in the noggin.

When everyone in the room is dead except for the two of them, Murdoc drops the spent rifle, picks up one of the handguns, and tucks it into his waistband. Then, he casually makes his way over to MacGyver’s chair – just as the little rascal frees his wrists and stumbles to his feet.

His face is all different shades of red and blue, and the broken skin on his cheek is still weeping slowly, but the poor little thing seems to be more confused than anything. Confused and unsteady on his feet, like a newborn fawn.

So, out of the goodness of his heart, Murdoc puts up his hands as approaches, whistling _Home on the Range_ and lightly kicking the toppled chair out of his way.

“Did you just kill all those guys yourself?” MacGyver asks, bewildered and breathing heavily. His voice cracks a bit. It’s adorable.

“I sure did, Angus. Impressed?”

At that exact moment, the steel door flies open, banging into the interior wall.

Murdoc whips around, levels his gun at the door, backpedaling to cover MacGyver – but the person who steps inside is not a member of the Legion. It’s—

“Jack?” MacGyver moves out from behind him, taking a limping step toward his wide-eyed Papa Bear, his hand trailing across Murdoc’s back as he stumbles.

And despite how painfully obvious the situation is, Dalton doesn’t seem to quite get it. “DROP YOUR WEAPON!” he shouts, full Ex-Delta. “HANDS UP!”

“Jack!” MacGyver tries, putting up his hands to calm him. “No, listen—”

“Mac, it’s good to see you, brother, but get your ass out of the way. I’m gon’ put a bullet in that sonofabitch.”

Murdoc moves his gun to one hand, raising the other.

“No, you’re not,” MacGyver says, approaching cautiously. “I know how it looks—”

“It _looks,_ ” Dalton interrupts, pointedly refusing to hear anything except what he’s already made his mind up about. “Like Murdoc flipped on you. Which isn’t surprising, by the way! I coulda’ told you that’d happen _if I’d been here!_ ”

“Jack, I know you’re angry, but Murdoc didn’t flip, okay? He just… Well, he just saved my life.” MacGyver gestures to the ground, to the bodies scattered everywhere.

“Saved your _life?_ ” Dalton’s hard eyes flash to Murdoc, who gives him a smile and a little wave, just to be polite. Slowly, the gun starts going down. He takes in the corpses, the blood, the shell casing, and MacGyver – still on his feet and in one piece.

“Nah…” Dalton looks at Murdoc again, his hard, face closing off again. “Nah, I’m not buyin’ it. He didn’t have to save you just now. He was surrounded by his dark-side buddies. This is some kind of _plot_. Mac, _get over here!_ ”

“A plot that requires me to _murder_ said dark-side buddies?” Murdoc quips, rolling his eyes. “What a very expensive plot that would be.”

“He’s right, Jack,” MacGyver goes on urgently, still putting himself between Dalton’s rifle and Murdoc’s body. “I know he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart, but the fact of the matter is, he hasn’t turned on us. He saved me, okay?”

When Dalton’s expression weakens, Murdoc chooses that moment to speak up. “They have my son, Jack.”

“What?”

“My son. Cassian. You remember him?”

Dalton looks at MacGyver, then back at Murdoc, nodding. “Yeah, I remember him…”

“Your boss has him in custody, and is using him against me to find information on the Legion. That’s why I’m here. MacGyver was never in danger – well, not from _me_.”

“Wait, let me get this straight…” Jack says, letting his gun drop the rest of the way to his side. Murdoc can see the slow, rusted wheels in his head struggling to turn. It’s sad, really. “Matty’s using a ten-year-old little kid as blackmail?”

“She sure is. Charming lady.”

“Cassian isn’t in any danger,” MacGyver clarifies. “That was never the threat. Only Murdoc’s rights to visit him.”

“Ah.” Jack nods in understand, then screws up his mouth. “Still, pretty messed up.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Murdoc says. Then, turning to MacGyver, he claps his gloved hands. “Well! Speaking of which, Henri may be dead, but we have to assume this building is connected with the Legion in some way. I’m sure that by tearing through documents and computers, we’ll be able to find out the location of the next attack.”

Angus nods. “Right.” He turns to Dalton. “What’s the security like upstairs?”

“Nonexistent, as of about five minutes ago.”

The Boy Scout’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did you—”

“For you, brother? Hell yeah.”

Murdoc turns, impressed. “My, my, my, Dalton. Very good. You know, at the rate we’re going, we won’t even need to find proof. The whole Legion will be dead.” Murdoc giggles at the thought, and while Dalton grimaces at the sound, MacGyver simply shakes his head, bending down with some great pain to retrieve the cell phone out of Henri’s pocket.

A valuable resource, for sure.

* * *

By the time they reach the top of the stairs, MacGyver is pale and breathy, leaning heavily on Jack’s shoulder. The bandage on his back is bright scarlet, completely soaked through. It’s amazing how badly such a tiny, little wound can bleed. It’s almost beautiful.

“How’d this happen?” Dalton asks, helping him through the double doors at the top of the steps. Murdoc is at point, sweeping the room ahead of them, but he can still hear their every word, even when they try to talk discreetly.

“When we got made by Halcomb, I had to make a quick decision about a bomb,” MacGyver explains quietly. He must be savoring his rekindled connection with Daddy Jack, leaning on him perhaps too much. “Well, it worked, but I got blasted back onto a four-inch construction nail.”

Dalton sucks air through his teeth. “Damn, kid. That musta’ smarted.”

MacGyver gives a short laugh. “Yeah, it did.” Then, softer, he adds, “Can you believe Murdoc patched me up?”

“ _Murdoc_ did? It wasn’t you?”

“No, I couldn’t even reach it. As weird as it is to say, he’s the only reason I didn’t bleed out.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence and then Jack whispers, “What is this world coming to?”

Murdoc presses on, ignoring their chatter.

The upstairs area of the building, the part he didn’t have the privilege of viewing upon their arrival because of the bag on his head, is a veritable bloody mess. Rows of metal desks are shoved against the walls, blocking windows and side entrances, leaving only the front door accessible. Office chairs, filing cabinets, water coolers, and even potted plants are piled on top of the desks, acting as barricades – all of it dinged with bullet holes.

It’s a testament to the soundproof nature of the basement that he didn’t hear the gunfire going on just ten feet overhead.

There are bodies, too. Slumped figures in tactical gear, guns scattered across the floor, spatters of red on the ceiling.

Dalton might not be an artist, but Murdoc has to give it to him. The man’s got game.

“You did all this yourself?” MacGyver asks lowly. When Murdoc peers back, Boy Wonder looks sort of ill, and only partially because of his injuries.

“Had to,” Dalton says. “I didn’t know what they were doin’ to you down there. I had to get to you.”

MacGyver nods, but his face is shadowed.

Poor Boy Scout. Death weighs so heavily on his shoulders.

While they work their way out, MacGyver and Dalton stop occasionally to grab laptops, cellular devices, anything that could potentially give Miss Davis access to The Legion’s plans.

Pale sunlight is coming through the front door. Murdoc shoves it open, but there is no one outside standing guard. When Dalton said he cleared the place, he really meant it. And, as an added bonus, there is no shortage of vehicles parked outside, ripe for the hotwiring.

“Woah, woah, Mac – you good?”

Murdoc stops, swivels his head.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” And yet, Angus certainly does not _look_ fine. Outside, his skin is even whiter, the bruises and cuts angrier shades of red and violet. He has wilted considerably in the last few minutes, listing more and more into Jack’s shoulder. “Just dizzy…”

“That would be the blood loss,” Murdoc says helpfully.

Two pairs of eyes glare at him.

“How bad? Dizzy like slightly lightheaded or dizzy like you’re gonna fall over?”

MacGyver opens his mouth, but ends up aborting whatever he was going to say in favor of snagging Dalton’s wrist and squeezing his eyes shut. “The—the second one. Definitely the second one…” His knees buckle and he starts going down.

Murdoc takes a step—to _help_ —but Jack stops him with a stormy glare and a hand out.

“You keep your distance,” he warns, wrestling to juggle MacGyver, and the Legion devices, and his weapon.

Murdoc sighs and rolls his eyes. Dawn is breaking. If they want to escape from the scene unnoticed, they should do so now.

He lowers MacGyver to the ground carefully, as if he’s a small child, and moves around to the front of him, lifting his chin and trying to rouse him. But Angus appears to be down for the count at the moment. If he’s not totally unconscious, he’s at least on the brink of it.

Murdoc busies himself with scouting vehicles. There’s a nice, big van parked across the lot. Jet-black with no windows except for in the cab, and a pair of big doors on the back. Could be an excellent place to store their stolen devices and a half-dead Phoenix agent.

Dalton apparently doesn’t have any qualms about Murdoc simply walking away, because he’s able to cross the lot without incident. The door is locked, so he busts it out with his elbow, brushing away the broken glass, and climbing through the seats to open the back doors.

It’s a campervan. Leather seats up front, then living space in the back – including a backseat that folds down into a bed. Perfect.

There’s storage space underneath, which he shuffles through but, finding nothing helpful, Murdoc climbs out the back and whistles loudly, drawing Dalton’s attention.

“MacGyver isn’t going to get better sitting on his ass in a parking lot!” he yells, hands on hips. “So, unless you _want_ him to die—which I would understand, of course—we should _leave_!”

Dalton looks like he wants to argue, but then he looks back at MacGyver and his expression softens. Thick fingers calloused from pulling a trigger gently brushes away a lock of blonde hair falling across his face, and then Jack loops one of Angus’s arms around his shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

They have to work together to get him onto the bed, and then Jack stays in the back of the van with him while Murdoc climbs into the driver’s seat.

“So, where to?” he asks, peering at Dalton in the rearview mirror. “Hospital?”

“That depends. You think these Legion buddies of yours would tear up a hospital to get to us?”

“They’re not my ‘buddies.’ But no, I doubt it. They’ve been very secretive so far, and now that Henri is dead, they’ll be scrambling – like a chicken without its head.”

“Then yeah, hospital.”

Murdoc hotwires the van and throws it in drive. As he’s steering out onto the highway, Jack presses an ear to his comms.

“Riley says there’s an emergency clinic ten miles down the road to the south.”

Murdoc salutes him. “Right away, Captain.”

* * *

The drive to the clinic is a fast, bumpy one with chilly dawn air blasting through the broken window. Murdoc swings the van into the nearly-empty parking lot, right under the glowing, red sign.

Jack has been trying to rouse the sleepy Boy Scout for the last several miles, but he has yet to bat an eye. Now, wiping a hand over his mouth, Dalton gets up and throws open the van doors. “I’m gonna go grab a wheelchair. Stay with him.” Then he disappears at a dead sprint.

In a surprise twist that will surely annoy Jack greatly, MacGyver chooses that moment to come around, blinking owlishly and grunting.

“Hey, hey, Angus. Nice of you to join us back in the world of the living.”

MacGyver regards him with sleepy, blue eyes. “Where are we?” he mumbles, squinting at their faint surroundings.

“The back of a stolen campervan, in a medical clinic parking lot. Oh, and Jack has just run to get you a wheelchair. He’s such a teddy-bear, that one – you know, when he’s not mowing down dozens of armed men.”

MacGyver tries to sit up, but Murdoc presses him back down.

“If you fall and crack your head open, Dalton will kill me. And that’s not hyperbole.”

The dry laugh he’s greeted with is a pleasant surprise, even though it is interrupted by a groan and MacGyver gripping the edge of the bed. “Any—” He takes a steadying breath. “Any word from Riley about the devices we found?”

“From what I’ve been told, our lovely Miss Davis is doing her very best to track the Legion’s movements and secure the location of their next attack. But, admittedly, we did throw a lot of data into her lap, and it will take time for her to pour through. Until then—”

Murdoc turns his head at the squeaking of metal wheels bumping across the asphalt. Jack is jogging toward them with that same look of determined over-protectiveness on his square face. “—Matilda is aware of your condition and wants us to make sure you receive medical treatment. She’s such a peach.”

MacGyver hums, his bruised face shadowed and thoughtful, seeming to look straight through Murdoc in a way that is not entirely comfortable. Just before Dalton arrives with the transport, Angus does something truly surprising.

He reaches out.

Lays a cold hand on top of Murdoc’s. The touch is so light, so timid, it might as well be a feather. Murdoc goes still, like a child who has just had a butterfly land in his hair, and with an equal amount of awe.

Quietly, but surely, MacGyver says, “You’ve held up your end of the deal, Murdoc. You will get to see Cassian again. Soon. I promise.” 

Then Jack arrives with the wheelchair and the moment is over. MacGyver’s hand is gone before Murdoc even has time to process that it was ever there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i just watched 3x06 - AKA the one where they apparently work together irl..................
> 
> awkward lol
> 
> (on the bright side tho! good ep!!!)


	7. Me and My Broken Heart

At five in the morning, the clinic waiting room is deserted. The lone receptionist seated behind the plexiglass window is dressed in light-green scrubs and a hot-pink hoodie. She’s entirely focused on something below the desk—probably her phone—until she notices the trio of frightening men approaching her work station.

To her credit, they are scary-looking.

First, there’s Jack – decked out in full tactical gear. He left his gun in the van, but he looks dangerous enough without one. Next, there’s Murdoc, who could be called “terrifying” even on his best days, now covered in bruises and black leather with his hair askew and sweaty. And then there’s Mac – shirtless, hastily bandaged, bruised, and bloody, slumped in a wheelchair.

The receptionist stiffens in her chair, rolling back an inch as her wide, green eyes take in the state of them.

“Scuse me,” Jack begins, doing his best to smile. He looks at her name tag. “Georgia. There’s no need to be frightened. My friend here just needs some medical attention.”

The woman, Georgia, looks at Mac, taking in his dangling head, how he’s leaning between the two other men. “Y-yes, of course,” she says, reaching for her keyboard. “Do, um, do you have an appointment?” Instantly, she flinches. Of course, they don’t have an appointment.

Jack takes mercy on her. “No, ma’am, we don’t. Apologies. But uh…” He looks around the rows of empty chairs and gives her another smile. “It doesn’t look like you’re exactly swamped. You think we could just head back now? He’s in real bad shape.”

“Yes—yes. Um—” She starts to say something else, but snaps her mouth shut. It was probably going to be insurance, payment, whatever else they ask you at the doctor’s offices, but then she points to the chairs behind him. “Let me just page one of our physicians and someone will be right with you.”

“Thank you, doll,” Murdoc says, flashing a syrupy-sweet smile.

Georgia just looks at him, nervous and clearly unsettled. She’s got good instincts and access to the clinic’s silent alarm.

“And, by the way,” he steps closer to her desk, leaning his elbows on it, and even though they’re separated by the window, Georgia stiffens. “I’m gonna need you to keep your hands above the desk where I can see them.”

She gulps, visibly breaking out into a sweat. “Why?”

“Because it would be really unfortunate for you to press that alarm and call the police—”

“Murdoc,” Jack hisses, eyes wide. “What the hell are you scarin’ the girl for?”

“I don’t mean to scare her.” He smiles, never once taking his eyes off the receptionist. “I’m just letting her know that things could get very dangerous, for everyone involved, if she calls the cops. After all, Henri made us somehow. My guess? They hacked our comms, which means they’re likely listening in on police radio as well.”

Jack swears and pushes Mac’s chair into the waiting room. The kid’s been in and out for the last few minutes. Whatever he was running on before—adrenaline, grit, or just pure force of will—he’s run out of it now.

Then he grabs Murdoc by the back of his coat and hauls him away from the poor, freaked-out girl behind the glass. Spinning him around, Jack bares his teeth. Before he has a chance to reem him out, a visibly confused doctor emerges from a heavy, blue door near the reception desk. Her blonde hair is tied back into a ponytail, and her dark-blue scrubs are covered in a white physician’s coat.

She processes the situation with impressive speed – confusion turning to grim acceptance. She waves them back.

“Gentlemen? You can bring your friend back now. We’ll do what we can. We don’t want any trouble.”

“Yeah,” Jack says lowly, practically teleporting behind the wheelchair and pushing Mac toward the door while the doc holds it open. “Neither do we. Murdoc—” He says, scowling. “Since you made this what it is, you stay out here. Keep a watch for the Legion.”

Murdoc answers him with another of his flat, shark-like smiles.

“What happened to him?” the doctor asks professionally, steering them toward an examination room at the end of the hall.

“He fell,” Jack says. “Onto a nail.”

“A nail?” She looks at him skeptically, her eyes sweeping down to Mac’s disheveled state. The bruises on his face. His split cheek. “Looks more like he fell under a bus.”

“Ah, yeah, uh, we take self-defense classes. Krav Maga. We don’t exactly pull our punches.”

It’s a lie, and she knows it.

The examination room is small and humming with fluorescent light. Jack lifts Mac onto the table and rolls the chair out.

The doctor takes his vitals, roving a stethoscope over his heart, taking his pulse, clipping a grey oxygen sensor onto his finger. She doesn’t like that he isn’t lucid.

“I think he said the nail was about four inches long.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

She carefully peels back the hasty bandage job, shining a light on the wound and frowning. “It’s deep,” she says, apparently convinced that—at the very least—Mac really did fall onto a nail. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Did he tend it himself?”

“Uh, no. My very creepy associate in the waiting room took care of it for him.”

“I’m fairly confident there’s no massive internal bleeding or damage to his organs, but he’s very weak. There’s also a high risk of infection when it comes to deep wounds like this – especially those caused by metal objects.”

The doctor sits back, runs a gloved hair through her ponytail. “Do you happen to know where I can reach a family member? I need to know if he’s up to date on his tetanus shot. He’ll likely need a booster.”

“I’m the closest thing he’s got to family,” Jack says. “He’s good, doc. Our company is a real stickler for physicals and shots, and whatnot.”

“He hasn’t got any family?” the doctor presses, raising an eyebrow. He knows what she’s thinking. Mac’s the victim of a kidnapping, or attempted murder, or gang violence gone wrong.

“Well, there’s his dad…” Jack says vaguely. “But they’re estranged. I don’t know how to contact him, and neither does he.”

“What’s his name?” She gestures to Mac.

“MacGyver. We call him Mac.”

“Well, Mr. MacGyver is going to need time to recover. He’ll need a blood transfusion, a full round of antibiotics, and I would also recommend a CT scan. None of which we can do here, at the clinic. I can call ahead and get him a place at the hospital but...” She flits her eyes away.

“Listen—” Jack sits forward, hands clasped. “I know what you think, but we’re not bad people.” He casts an eye down at Mac. “Mac and I, we’re the good guys.”

“And the man in my waiting room?”

Jack meets her gaze. “You got a good head on your shoulders, doc. You tell me.”

She squints, sits back, and sighs. “I think…he’s trouble. But, to be fair to your ‘associate,’ you all look like trouble.”

Jack smiles ruefully. “I know. Comes with the job. But, like I said, all I want is to get my buddy Mac back on his feet so we can get out of your hair. Is there anything you can do to bring him around?” He touches Mac’s arm, which is chilly and unresponsive. “To get him functioning? Once we get home, he’ll be fine, but we can’t leave town yet.”

“We’re a clinic, not a hospital,” she says sourly. “We give flu shots, and take heart rates, and recommend specialists.”

“Are you tellin’ me a medical clinic doesn’t have the stuff to save a person in an emergency? No blood, or antibiotics at all?”

“Well…” She flounders weakly. “Yes, we do, but…”

“But you want us gone.”

She’s stricken. “I just don’t want there to be any trouble.”

“Fine.” Jack sits back, opens his arms in surrender. “We’ll leave. Give us whatever we need to help him, and we’ll do it on the road. Good?” He reaches into his pocket for his wallet, and the doctor jumps, letting out a startled sound.

“Woah, woah. Easy.” He holds up the leather wallet. “I don’t carry a lot of cash around with me, but here. I don’t know if this covers it, but it’s all I got on me.” He lays the cash on bed at Mac’s feet. “We got a deal, doc?”

She barely even looks at the cash. “Deal.”

* * *

So that’s how, five minutes later, Jack comes rushing out of the back of the clinic with Mac still out cold, in a wheelchair, with his lap piled high with medical stuff.

Murdoc is leaning on the reception desk like a cat staring into a fishbowl. When Jack returns, he straightens up, a deep frown darkening his expression when he notices how very not-well Mac still looks.

“What’s happening, Jack, old buddy, old pal? Boy Wonder still looks to be rather unconscious.”

“It’s fine,” Jack tells him. “Any word from Matty or Riley?”

“Not a peep.”

“Here.” Jack grabs the stuff out of Mac’s lap and shoves it into Murdoc’s arms. “Carry that and go start the van. I’m right behind you.”

Just as Jack is scooping Mac out of the chair and into his arms, the kid stirs. His cool cheek presses into Jack’s neck, bleary eyes squinting open.

“Jack…?”

“Easy, brother,” he mumbles, pushing the clinic door open with his hip. Murdoc is a good ten paces ahead, juggling the box of stuff in one arm while he opens the driver’s side door. “I got you. Just relax.”

Even as he says it, Jack’s own heart is racing. While they were getting the stuff they’d need to fix Mac, the doctor told him something pretty alarming. Something he wished she’d have kept to herself, honestly.

“Your friend is in bad shape,” she’d said, piling things into the cardboard box. “He isn’t in shock just yet, but he’s getting close. He needs to get some blood in him before that happens.”

“Murdoc!” Jack says, stopping him before he can in the front seat. “I’m driving. You get in back with Mac.”

“Really? You want me to take care of him?” He touches his heart. “Jack, that’s so sweet of you. I knew we could be friends.”

“Shut up. We’re not friends. But—” He swallows the bile that rises in is throat, just at the thought of saying this. It feels so damn wrong. “You know how to put in an IV, and I don’t. Mac needs a blood transfusion before he goes into shock and dies. You think you can handle that?”

“Well, of course. It’s just as easy as pie. _And,_ as an added bonus, I’ve already given MacGyver an IV once before, so I know exactly which of his veins are tricky and which are just plump and easy to poke at.” Creepy grin.

Despite himself, Jack shivers. His knuckles are itching with the urge to punch this asshole right in his jaw. Just the thought of Murdoc sticking another needle in his kid…

“Get to it, then,” he snarls, getting in the front and slamming the door.

Murdoc climbs in back, next to a semi-conscious MacGyver. His eyes are hooded and unfocused. Every time he blinks, it looks as though he won’t open them again.

“Righty-o, Angus,” Murdoc says, reaching into the box of goodies for the stuff he needs. He takes out the needle, the port, the tubing, and of course, one of the bags of O-negative.

MacGyver’s head lifts weakly. He shifts like he’s trying to get up, but he doesn’t get far. “What…” he starts, then drops his head again, eyes fluttering.

Oh, yes. He’ll be going into shock soon.

“Relax, Mac,” Jack calls from the front. “Murdoc’s just takin’ care of you, okay? I’d do it myself, except I don’t know how.”

That settled, Murdoc scooches closer, reaching for MacGyver’s arm.

But he yanks it back, startled. “Don’t—” he says, and then it becomes obvious that dear, sweet Angus isn’t entirely there at all. The blood loss has got him all discombobulated.

“I have to,” Murdoc tells him sternly, reaching for the arm again. But again, MacGyver twists away. This time, almost succeeding and throwing himself off the bed.

“What the hell’s goin’ on back there?” Jack demands.

“He’s fighting me!” Murdoc snaps, standing up as the van bumps down the road, trying to wrestle MacGyver into submission. That barely helps. For someone who’s half-dead, he’s awfully strong. “Hold still, silly Angus! This will only pinch for a second!” He pins the arm down and jabs the needle in, earning a hiss from his captive – er, patient.

All the while, Jack’s eyes flash repeatedly to the rearview mirror. So often that they’re nearly run off the road by a furious trucker, who lays on the horn long after they’ve passed each other.

“Eyes on the road, Dalton!” Murdoc yells.

Getting the IV port into position is easier because MacGyver starts to fade after that, thoroughly wiped by their brief struggle. His head lulls to the side, and Murdoc can see the rapid flutter of his pulse beating in his carotid.

Attaching the bag to the tube to the needle, he attaches it together, and _voila,_ healthy, red blood starts running down the pipe into MacGyver’s pale forearm.

Next is the antibiotics, which Murdoc is less familiar with. He takes the time to read the label on the bottle three or four times before pushing it into Angus’s system with a hail Mary, hoping he’s got it right.

“Where are we going, Dalton?” he asks.

“Matty’s got an exfil lined up for us, but it ain’t here yet, and we can’t leave anyhow – not until we’re sure we can take the Legion apart.”

“I’m surprised Ms. Davis is taking so long to dig through those devices we sent her. Isn’t she supposed to be some kind of whiz kid with technology?”

“All right, listen up, Michael Myers. Since Mac ain’t awake to play mediator, we’re gonna have to set some ground rules, all right? Rule number one: you don’t mention Riley. At all. That’s my little girl, we clear?”

“Crystal,” Murdoc says, already bored and turning his attention to something more interesting. Namely, holding up the blood bad so it can easily drain into his blonde, three-quarters-dead bestie.

“Rule number two—”

“There’s _more_?”

“Shut up. Rule number two: when we get to the exfil location, you hand over your weapons.”

“No.”

“Hey! This ain’t up for debate!”

“It most certainly is, Texas Ranger. Matilda assigned me to this mission. MacGyver _handed_ me a weapon. You, on the other hand, aren’t even supposed to be here. As a matter of fact, _I_ have a ground rule for _you_!”

“Huh-uh, creep-o, it doesn’t work that way!”

“Rule number one: if you insist on calling me by the names of fictitious murders, I must insist you limit yourself to the ones _without_ the severe case of mommy issues, _mmkay_?”

“Hey—”

“Also! I should point out that I had about five-hundred opportunities to kill Angus, each more delicious than the last, and I resisted them all—”

“Yeah, you’re a real saint.”

“— _plus,_ there’s the matter of my son, Cassian!”

At the mention of the boy’s name, Jack is silenced. He stares straight ahead, brow furrowed angrily, but his mouth snapped shut.

“You don’t have children, Dalton, not really.” Dangerous, brown eyes shoot him through the rearview mirror, but Murdoc ignores him. “And as much as you _looove_ MacGyver and Ms. Davis and think of them as your ‘kids,’ they’re not. They’re not yours, not really.”

Murdoc sits forward, leaning over MacGyver to be sure Dalton can hear him, to hiss right in his ear. “If and when you ever _do_ have kids of your own, you’ll understand what I mean when I say that I would do nothing— _nothing—_ to endanger my chances of seeing Cassian. Because going through life not knowing where your child is, or whether they’re safe, or happy, or sad, or hungry…” He drops back into his seat, crossing his arms. “I’d rather die than live like that.”

* * *

They’re ten minutes out from exfil when Matty calls. Jack puts her on speaker.

_“How’s Mac?”_ she asks gently.

“Doin’ better now,” Jack replies, peering into the back, where Murdoc is bracing the kid so he doesn’t roll off the bed when they go over speed bumps. “We stopped at a clinic and got some stuff to patch him up. He should be comin’ around soon.”

_“Well, that is very good news, Jack, because this time tomorrow, you’ll all be home and resting easy.”_

Jack perks up. “Riley found the location of the attack?”

_“Actually,”_ comes Ri’s voice, sounding bright and cocky. _“I did one better. There was an encrypted file on Halcomb’s phone that confirmed the location of three Legion bases in the city. Matty’s got tac teams there right now pulling everyone out.”_

“Ha-ha! That’s my girl!” Jack whoops, drumming the steering wheel excitedly. 

_“And although it would have been preferable for us to take Halcomb in_ alive,” Matty says pointedly. _“Having him off the board ensures that, if there are any other secret Legion bases, they won’t have a leader to report to, and it’s safe to say there will be no more attacks for the foreseeable future. I hear we have you to thank for that, Murdoc. And for saving the life of my top agent.”_

“Oh, Matilda, you are _so_ welcome! It was a delight, honestly. I had such a blast road-tripping with my pals, Man-n’-Jack! _Ooh!_ You know, we should really have a team name! Something with our initials. What do you think of MMJ? Double-M-J? That sounds very secret-spy, don’t you think?”

_“Well, it would,”_ Matty says patiently. _“If you were ever going on another mission together, but you’re not. So, simmer down, Freddie Kruger.”_

“Speaking of which…I trust this means I’ll be able to see my son when we return to California.”

A weighted pause.

_“We’ll discuss logistics when you get back,”_ Matty says.

* * *

The next time Mac is fully lucid, he’s resting on his back on a hard, cold surface.

His first thought is: operating table, but the smell is wrong. The spice of fresh-cut wood permeates the air so strong it almost makes him cough. It’s the only thing he can smell.

Shortly after he comes around, there’s a loud _BANG_ and he nearly jumps out of his skin, the fright making him dizzy.

“Look, a-hole, I don’t care what you say!” It’s Jack, stomping in through the door he just through open so loudly. “Matty ain’t a liar!”

“I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath the village idiot,” Murdoc puts in, sounding equally annoyed. “But I assure you, Dalton, if I discover that your boss has been lying to me, you won’t _all_ live to regret it.”

The approaching footsteps stop. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a guarantee.”

Their voices are both scathing, inches away from murdering each other. Mac knew this would happen if Jack came along.

“Would you two…” he mumbles, a grunt escaping his throat as he tries to pry himself up. “ _Stop_ arguing?”

Jack appears them, a hand ghosting over Mac’s cheek. He smiles, practically stumbling with relief. “Hey, there’s them baby blues.”

Mac wants to roll his eyes, but he’s having a hard enough time focusing his vision as it is. “Where are we?” he asks, squinting at blurry curtains, shag carpet, a beige sofa. “Someone’s grandma’s house? Ah…” He winces, noticing for the first time the IV stuck in his arm. The skin around it is red and irritated. “What is…?”

“Easy, man.” Jack’s hand closes over his own, stopping Mac before he can instinctively pull the needle out. “You only just started your second bag of blood. We need to keep that in you.”

Bag of blood?

Mac follows the tubing to a coat rack position beside the table he’s stretched out on. There’s a bag of O-negative dangling from a hangar. “I didn’t know you knew how to administer an IV, Jack.”

The momentary hesitation speaks volumes.

Mac looks up at him to find Jack frowning. “I didn’t.”

That’s when Murdoc steps forward. He waves, wearing a crooked smile and some yellowing bruises on his chin. “Hi, there, sleepyhead. No need to thank me. Actually, it reminded me of the good old days.”

“That would be the ‘good old days’ when you drugged, kidnapped, and tortured him?” Jack snaps.

“ _Tortured_.” Murdoc rolls his eyes. “I hardly laid a hand on him. And I knew he would escape.”

“Bullshit you knew.” Jack is growing, squaring against Murdoc like he wants to start throwing fists. “You were gonna _kill_ —”

“Jack, stop.” Mac tries again to sit up, this time succeeding in getting as far as his elbows. “You’re not helping.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t going to kill him. Maybe…play with him a little bit, yeah, but I planned on letting him go once I got what I wanted: information on my son’s whereabouts. Speaking of which…” Murdoc leans on the edge of Mac’s table, hovering over him, staring down with an icy expression.

The whole situation—the cold surface beneath him, the IV, the threat of violence—stirs a memory Mac worked hard to bury. He flattens against the table without meaning to, and Jack snarls in response and reaches out to pry Murdoc away from him.

Mac, however, stops him before he can. Because something is wrong. Something to do with Cassian. “What did Matty say?” Mac demands, piecing together bits of their earlier conversation with the murderous flame in Murdoc’s eyes.

“It’s not what she said,” he replies. “It’s what she didn’t say. Namely, a guarantee that I would be able to see Cassian upon our return.” 

“That’s utter horseshit,” Jack says. “She said you’d talk about the details when we all get back to LA. What’s so confusing about that?”

Murdoc rounds on him. “Maybe that’s what passes a promise between you people,” he says between gritted teeth. “But where I come from, avoidance is typically not a good thing.”

“Matty wouldn’t go back on her word,” Mac assures him, sitting up again.

“I hope you’re right, MacGyver. Really, I do. Because as much as I’ve enjoyed slummin’ it on the right side of the law, if I don’t get my son at the end of this, this little buddy-trip of ours will become an abrupt and _very messy_ end.”

That’s when Mac notices. “You’re not worried that Matty is going to break her promise. You know she’s good on her word; otherwise, you would have accepted this job to begin with. You think she’s stalling because something else is wrong. That something’s wrong with Cassian.”

The stiffening of Murdoc’s posture tells Mac all he needs to know. “Well, don’t be,” he goes on. “Cassian is under constant surveillance and protection. Nothing happened to him, Murdoc. Matty is probably just working out logistics.”

“How—”

“You always get that same, haunted look on your face when you’re worried about Cassian. Relax. He’s fine.”

Murdoc opens his mouth, then closes it. He takes a step back, looks at Jack, then back, and crosses his arms in obvious discomfort. “Did you just—” He narrows his eyes. “Did you just try to _comfort me_ , MacGyver? After I just threatened your life?”

Mac shrugs tiredly, wearing just a trace of a smirk. “Well, A) I’m used to your threats by now. And B) it was a bluff anyway.” He lays back and shuts his eyes. “You’re not going to do anything to us, Murdoc.”

“Oh no? How can you be so sure, Boy Scout? Are you a mind reader now?” His voice has gone high and hissing, the way it does when he’s forcefully injecting levity over stress.

It’s scary how well Mac is getting at reading Murdoc.

“No. Mind reading isn’t real.” He folds his non-IV arm under his head and tries to get comfortable on the table. It’s not easy, but he’s definitely slept in worse places. “But you’re not as good at hiding your humanity as you think you are. Sorry, pal.”

Murdoc is stunned, but behind him, Jack couldn’t be smiling any bigger.

“ _Whoo!_ And _that_ is what we call a _sick burn!_ Take that, Jason Voorhees!”

* * *

Ten minutes later, a Phoenix convoy arrives outside the safehouse. With them is a medical team who checks Mac out and confirms he’s stable enough for transport. There’s a plane awaiting them at an airfield forty-five minutes away, and then the short matter of the trip back to California.

By the end of the day, Mac will be resting comfortably in the Phoenix Foundation medbay and Murdoc will be back in chains. Or, in this case, a fancy new house arrest anklet.

Jack would call that a happy ending if he wasn’t so skeeved out.

Upon their return to the Phoenix, he expects Murdoc to get picked up immediately, before they even go inside. But as it turns out, whatever housing Matty is getting lined up for him hasn’t quite gone through yet, so Jack is ordered to keep an eye on him while Mac gets checked out by the doctor.

By seven o’clock that night, Mac is in a nice, clean bed, his coloration somewhat rosier with the fresh blood and crisp, white hospital gown. His IV has been switched and put into his right arm, giving the sore left one time to heal. There are all kinds of bags draining into him now, oxygen in his nose, and fresh bandages around his waist, on his cheek, and arms.

He looks like shit, but he’ll live.

Murdoc gets checked out too, against his wishes. He tries to argue that he’s fine, but Mac tells him to shut up and… He does. Which is super freaking weird.

There’s nothing wrong with him except a few bumps and bruises, so he gets to shrug his shirt and jacket back on and sit with Jack in the chairs beneath the window. But just because he’s uninjured doesn’t mean he’s at ease.

“Quit jigglin’ your leg like that; it’s annoying,” Jack grouses.

“It’s a nervous habit,” Murdoc grumbles back, continuing to bob his leg. “I have others. They include stabbing, strangling, and breaking fingers. Would you prefer I choose another?”

“Listen here, you—”

“ _Guys_ ,” Mac complains. “Would you stop fighting for, like, five seconds?”

The door to Mac’s room opens then and three very familiar faces walk in, bright with relief.

“Hey, Mac!” Riley says, bounding over. Jack stands to greet her with a big smile, and when she’s done fussing over Mac, she wraps her arms around Jack and squeezes. “You have no idea how good it is to see you,” she says against his neck.

“You look like hell, blondie,” Matty says, approaching the bed next. Despite her words, she’s looking at him affectionately. When she reaches out and brushes a piece of his hair out of his face, Mac sighs and looks at her with such warmth that she’d might as well be his mother.

“I’ll live,” he assures her, and somehow, her soft expression glows even brighter.

“That is good to hear.”

When she moves, hugging Jack and checking him over, Bozer takes her place. He’s visibly falling over with relief at having his friend home, doing his best to seem cool as he grins and laughs, and lightly punches Mac in the shoulder.

It’s a heart-warming reunion, one that Murdoc evidently has had enough of.

When he stands up, it’s like a shadow has fallen over the room.

Riley and Bozer move backwards involuntarily, as if physically repelled by his presence. It’s not a random distancing, however. They, like Jack, move to block Murdoc from Mac’s bed, placing themselves between him and the killer in the room.

Matty is the only one who holds her ground.

“Well, Matilda?” he says, flashing a smile only a piranha or a mother could love.

Matty, however, doesn’t bait him like she normally would. In fact, she looks at the tiled floor and sighs. “First, I’d like you to know I pulled every string I could—”

It’s like someone flips a switch; the change is so sudden.

“WHERE IS HE?” Murdoc shouts, taking one step toward Matty before Jack pulls a gun on him, trapping him mid-step.

He only acknowledges the weapon for the briefest of instants before glaring Matty down.

“Where,” he hisses. “Is. My. Son?”

Matty is unfazed as ever, her hands folded behind her back. “He’s still being held at our secure facility. The doctors there aren’t convinced Cassian is safe with you, and I can’t overrule their decision.”

“What?” Murdoc shakes his head, visibly confused. “What does that mean, you can’t overrule them? You’re their _boss!_ And why wouldn’t Cassian be safe with me; I’m his father!”

“He’s a child, Murdoc! A ten-year-old little boy who has been bounced from foster home to foster home his whole life, whose father was in prison for murder, who was taken abruptly into protective custody and surrounded by doctors and strangers. He’s delicate, and frankly, the doctors don’t trust you.”

“He’s my _son._ You swore I’d be able to see him!”

“And you will.” Matty’s voice is firm. Unflinching. “Someday. But not yet. It’s for your son’s own good, Murdoc.”

“But he _wants_ to see me. I know he does!”

“He does. I’m told he asks about you every day.”

Murdoc makes a choking sound and turns his face away abruptly. Whether out of rage, or frustration, or sadness, however, it’s hard to tell.

“This isn’t forever, Murdoc,” she says. “Your scheduled visits will begin just as soon as the doctors feel it’s safe.”

“Which is when?”

Matty regards him, then shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m truly sorry.”

Murdoc’s face is red. He’s shaking with rage, but before he can do anything unleash it, a group of Phoenix security guards enters. Two of them take Murdoc by his arms, another slaps a tracking bracelet around his ankle.

“Time to go home, psycho,” one of them mutters.

As he’d led out the door, Murdoc meets Mac’s eyes. There’s anger in them, yes, but hurt too.

_I told you she’d break her promise._

* * *

_**T H E M U R D O C R E S I D E N C E** _

_**S O M E W H E R I N C A L I F O R N I A** _

The house Matilda arranged for him is nice enough.

Private, secluded. Big windows, white furniture, everything modern. The kitchen is stocked weekly by Phoenix interns or something. Young people mostly, someone different every time. All of them dressed in black, bearing armloads of plastic grocery bags. They drop them on the front step, ring the bell, and disappear.

Murdoc gathers the groceries, takes them into the kitchen, and unloads everything into the white cabinets, the silver refrigerator.

He has a TV, a laptop linked to a highly-monitored internet connection, same with the phone. Books. Board games. A deck of cards.

It’s an easy existence, and a lonely one. All the luxury of freedom with all the crippling isolation of a supermax.

It’s a Friday. Grocery day.

Murdoc is reclining on his white sofa, wondering if this is depression. He hasn’t eaten yet, or showered for two days, or done anything except lay here on this couch. Well, that’s not quite true. He’s spent a considerable amount of time fantasizing about murdering Matilda Webber and every doctor at the Phoenix holding facility.

He isn’t particularly sad, although he’s read that depression doesn’t always feel like sadness. Sometimes it’s a…heaviness. A lack of interest in anything. And he certainly has that.

The doorbell rings. The grocery person.

He almost doesn’t bother getting up, except that a minute later, it rings again insistently. Then he starts thinking that if he doesn’t get up, Matilda will probably send someone here to make sure he hasn’t escaped, and he doesn’t feel like being invaded by armed guards today.

So, peeling himself off the couch like a dried-up piece of food, he stalks toward the front door, muttering, “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

However, upon opening up, he doesn’t find any groceries.

Instead, there’s a box. A small cardboard box the size of a mass-market paperback.

Murdoc looks right, then left. He sees no one, but all of his instincts are firing off saying: DANGER, DANGER!

Carefully, he lowers himself into a crouch, gingerly poking the corners of the container. It shifts easily and there are no clicks or related bomb noises.

It also doesn’t explode, which is nice.

He picks it up and carries it into the front room, shutting the door behind him. It weighs practically nothing, making no sound when he sets it on the counter, but something slides around inside of it. What’s inside only confuses him more.

It’s a sheet of paper.

And a Swiss Army Knife. A very familiar red one.

Murdoc frowns, picks up the knife, and returns to the window, peering out. But he sees no one. Going back for the paper, he unfolds it hastily. On it is just five words.

“You know what to do.”

Weighing the knife in his hand, Murdoc finds himself smiling for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Cutting the ankle bracelet off was the easy part. Getting outside without tripping any of the extensive alarm systems is hard.

But it’s worth it.

Parked at the end of the driveway, on the other side of the locked gate, is a vintage, black GTO. The camera nearby is disabled, and the gate is wedged open with what looks like a tree limb and a piece of chain.

Murdoc makes sure he’s swaggering by the time he reaches the car. After all, they came all this way to see him. He wouldn’t want to disappoint.

He taps on one the dark windows.

“Why, hello, Team Phoenix! Boy, it’s been a while, huh? Did you miss me?”

The car door pops open and out steps the Boy Wonder himself. Angus MacGyver, all bruise-free and looking snappy in a fresh set of clothes. The picture of health.

“Murdoc,” he says by way of greeting. He glances down, so Murdoc shows off his newly bracelet-free ankle. “I see you got my message.”

“Speaking of which.” Murdoc produces the little, red knife and hands it back to him. “As much as I love a jail-break, I simply must know what inspired this refreshingly devious turn of events, MacGyver, you naughty thing.”

Angus looks down to hide his reluctant grin. “Actually, it’s not a jail-break. It’s more of, um, a brief…unscheduled parole.”

“Oh?” he asks with interest.

The GTO’s windows are tinted, so Murdoc can’t see who else deemed to join Angus on this little trip down Illegal Lane, but he’s guessing at least Jack. Considering it’s his car. Probably Riley as well. Maybe even Bozer.

“Yeah, well, I actually came to talk.” He crosses his arms and leans back on the side of the vehicle.

Murdoc tilts his head. “A social call, how delightful! Well, go ahead, Angus. What’s on your mind? You know I’m always an open book.”

And now, MacGyver gets more serious. “First, I want you to know I stand by Matty’s decision about Cassian.”

Ah.

Murdoc smacks his lips with a cold smile. “Well, then. We have nothing more to talk about—”

“ _But_. After you were sent here, and I got discharged from the hospital, I swung by the facility where they were keeping your son and… Well, I had a talk with him. About you.” MacGyver is watching him carefully, probably trying to judge whether he’s about to be attacked. “He wants to see you.”

“He does?” Murdoc doesn’t know he’s so surprised, and relieved. He already knew Cassian would want to be with him. Or, bar that, be able to visit him every so often. Still, it’s nice to hear.

“Yeah. He was just as upset as you when he found out he’d need to wait a while longer before visiting.”

God, poor Cassian. Surrounded by strangers. No friends, no father. He must be so lonely.

“Also,” Angus continues. “I promised you that you’d be able to see him when you got home, and I never break a promise.”

It’s then that the back door of the GTO pops open, and a small, dark-haired figure steps out, and Murdoc’s heart stops in his chest.

Angus is smiling at him. Openly, for the first time. The first time ever.

Cassian is as surprised as he is. Big, hazel eyes staring like Murdoc is the moon and the stars. “DADDY!”

“ _Cassian?_ ”

They collide, Cassian almost knocking him flat on his back, arms squeezing each other. And Murdoc’s eyes are blurry with tears, but he doesn’t even care. His son smells like the soft, wool sweater hugging his body, and shampoo, and something medical that’s probably from the facility. But his hair is soft against Murdoc’s cheek, and he’s _here._

Cassian is here, in his arms. Safe, and real, and _here._

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Matty though,” MacGyver says, still leaning back on the car, looking down at them with such genuine happiness that Murdoc almost regrets being a sociopath. What must it be like to get joy just from seeing others happy?

It must be nice. It could even be the reason someone might work for the Phoenix, saving lives, instead being an assassin and taking them.

“I won’t say a word,” Murdoc manages to choke out, but his voice is tight and wobbly. MacGyver is gracious enough not to mention it.

Instead he says, “You have one hour before I have to take Cassian back.”

Murdoc nods and tries dislodging Cassian from around his neck, but the kid is stubborn and not letting go. Not that he minds. Laughing, he picks his son up and shifts all 70 pounds of him to one hip so he can extend a hand to MacGyver.

He takes it, and they shake briefly. All the while, Murdoc is sure Jack is twitching inside the car.

“Thank you, MacGyver,” he says seriously. “I mean it. Thank you for this.”

He’s still smiling. “Don’t mention it.” Then, tussling Cassian’s dark hair, he adds, “Go spend some quality time with your dad. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacGyver!”

They stay in the yard where the Phoenix team can supervise, but Murdoc hardly notices them. For the first time in weeks, he feels like himself. He feels good. And Cassian looks so happy it’s almost heartbreaking.

The hour goes by too fast, but Cassian tells him he isn’t going to stop whining and pestering the doctors until they agree to let him visit regularly. He says he’ll even cry so they feel bad for him. Little manipulator. Murdoc couldn’t be more proud.

When their time is up, Murdoc walks his son back to the car to find the team listening to music and relaxing. The only person who seems to be paying any attention at all is Jack, but even that is in a subdued way.

MacGyver glances up when they approach and steps out to help Cassian buckle up in the back seat next to Riley.

“So,” Angus says after he has shut the car door. “Did you two have fun?”

Murdoc chuckles. “We did, thank you.”

“Enough to hold you over for a while? Like I said, this was a one-time thing, Murdoc. I’m not sneaking him out under Matty’s nose again.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. But I appreciate that you did it this time. It…” He hesitates, suddenly bashful in a strange way. “It means the world to us. To me.”

“Yeah, well, I felt like I owed you at least this much, after everything that happened on the op. Pretty sure you’ve actually saved my life more times than you’ve tried to take it, if you can believe that.” He shakes his head in bewilderment. “Well, now we’re even.”

“More than even,” Murdoc asserts. “If you ever need my help—”

“I know where to find you.”

That’s when Jack leans his head out the passenger-side door and, frowning in distaste, says, “Hey! If you were are done flirtin’, we need to get going. Cassian’s due back at the facility in forty-five minutes and it’s rush hour.”

Murdoc winks at Dalton. “It’s good to see _you_ again too, Jack. Are you sure you don’t want to come out and we can all have a great, big group hug?”

He scowls and then disappears back behind the wheel.

Angus laughs quietly before slipping into his own seat. “You might want to put that ankle monitor back on, by the way. You know, unless you want to end up back in a supermax.”

“Duly noted, Angus. Drive safe now!”

The door shuts and they peel out of the driveway. Murdoc steps back through the gate and removes MacGyver’s handmade lever that was keeping it open. He tosses it and, on his way back to the house, is struck with the most peculiar realization that they left before making sure he went back into custody.

So, this is what trust feels like.

How delightful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading!!!!! All of your comments have been SO sweet!!!! I probably wouldn't have finished this if you all hadn't been so supportive and nice! I hope you enjoyed!!!!!!


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